CIHM 
Microfiche 
Series 
(l\/lonographs) 


ICMH 

Collection  de 
microfiches 
(monographles) 


Canadian  Institute  for  Historical  Microreproductions  /  Institut  Canadian  de  microreproductions  historiques 


Technical  and  Bibliographic  Notes  /  Notes  techniques  et  bibliographiques 


The  Institute  has  attempted  to  obtain  the  best  original 
copy  available  for  filming.  Features  of  this  copy  which 
may  be  bibliographically  unique,  which  may  alter  any  of 
the  images  in  the  reproduction,  or  which  may 
significantly  change  the  usual  method  of  filming  are 
checked  below. 


0 


Coloured  covers  / 
Couverture  de  couleur 


□   Covers  damaged  / 
Couverture  endommag^e 

□   Covers  restored  and/or  laminated  / 
Couverture  restaur^e  et/ou  pellicul^e 

I I   Cover  title  missing  /  Le  titre  de  couverture  manque 

I I   Coloured  maps  /  Cartes  g6ographiques  en  couleur 

I     y  Coloured  ink  (i.e.  other  than  blue  or  black)  / 
Li/   Encre  de  couleur  (i.e.  autre  que  bleue  ou  noire) 

r^   Coloured  plates  and/or  illustrations  / 


Planches  et/ou  illustrations  en  couleur 

Bound  with  other  material  / 
Reli6  avec  d'autres  documents 


D 
D 


D 


D 


Only  edition  available  / 
Seule  Edition  disponible 

Tight  binding  may  cause  shadows  or  distortion  along 
interior  margin  /  La  reliure  serr^e  peut  causer  de 
I'ombre  ou  de  la  distorsion  le  long  de  la  marge 
int^rieure. 

Blank  leaves  added  during  restorations  may  appear 
within  the  text.  Whenever  possible,  these  have  been 
omitted  from  filming  /  Use  peut  que  certaines  pages 
blanches  ajout6es  lors  d'une  restauration 
apparaissent  dans  le  texte,  mais,  lorsque  cela  6tait 
possible,  ces  pages  n'ont  pas  6!6  film6es. 

Additional  comments  / 
Commentaires  suppl^mentaires: 


L'Institut  a  microfilm^  le  meilleur  exemplaire  qu'il  lui  a 
6t6  possible  de  se  procurer.  Les  details  de  cet  exem- 
plaire qui  sont  peut-§tre  uniques  du  point  de  vue  bibli- 
ographique,  qui  peuvent  modifier  une  image  reproduite, 
ou  qui  peuvent  exiger  une  modification  dans  la  m6tho- 
de  normale  de  filmage  sont  indiqu6s  ci-dessous. 

I I   Coloured  pages  /  Pages  de  couleur 

I I   Pages  damaged  /  Pages  endommag6es 

□    Pages  fvistored  and/or  laminated  / 
Pages  restaur^s  et/ou  pellicul^es 

B  Pages  discoloured,  stained  or  foxed  / 
Pages  d6color6es,  tachet6es  ou  piqu6es 

I      I   Pages  detached  /  Pages  d6tach6es 

[v/j   Showthrough  /  Transparence 

□   Quality  of  print  varies  / 
Quality  in6gale  de  I'impressi'  n 

Includes  supplementary  material  / 
Comprend  du  materiel  supplemental  re 

Pages  wholly  or  partially  obscured  by  errata  slips, 
tissues,  etc.,  have  been  refilmed  to  ensure  the  best 
possible  image  /  Les  pages  totalement  ou 
partiellement  obscurcies  par  un  feuillet  d'errata,  une 
pelure,  etc.,  ont  6t6  film6es  k  nouveau  de  fagon  ^ 
obtenir  la  meilleure  image  possible. 

Opposing  pages  with  varying  colouration  or 
discolourations  are  filmed  twice  to  ensure  the  best 
possible  image  /  Les  pages  s'opposant  ayant  des 
colorations  variables  ou  des  decolorations  sont 
film6es  deux  fois  afin  d'obtenir  la  meilleure  image 
possible. 


D 
D 


D 


This  Itam  la  filmed  at  tha  reduction  ratio  checked  below  / 

C*  document  est  film*  au  taux  de  rMuction  Indiqu*  ci-dessoua. 


lOx 

14x 

18x 

22x 

26x 

30x 

J 

12x 

16x 

20x 

24x 

7Hv 

»v 

Th«  copy  filmed  h«r«  has  tmmn  reproduced  thanka 
to  tha  ganarosity  of: 

National  Li±)rary  of  Canada 


L'axampiaira  film*  fut  raproduit  graca  A  la 
ginArosit*  da: 

Bibliotheque  nationale  du  Caiuida 


The  image*  appearing  here  are  the  beat  quality 
posaibia  considering  the  condition  and  legibility 
of  the  original  copy  and  in  keeping  with  the 
filming  contract  specifications. 


Las  images  suivantas  ont  *tA  raproduites  avac  la 
plus  grand  soin,  compta  tanu  da  la  condition  ct 
da  la  neneti  de  I'exemplaire  film*,  et  sn 
conformity  avac  lea  conditions  du  contrat  de 
filmage. 


Original  copies  in  printed  paper  covers  are  filmed 
beginning  with  tha  front  cover  and  ending  on 
the  last  page  with  a  printed  or  illustretad  imprae- 
sion.  or  the  back  cover  when  appropriate.  All 
other  original  copiaa  are  filmed  beginning  on  tha 
first  page  with  a  printed  or  illustrated  impres- 
sion, and  ending  on  tha  last  page  with  a  printed 
or  illuatrated  impression. 


Les  exemplaires  originaux  dont  la  couverture  en 
papier  eat  imprimAe  sont  fllmAs  en  commen^ant 
par  la  premier  plat  et  en  terminant  soit  par  la 
darniAre  page  qui  comporte  une  empreinte 
d'impression  ou  d'illustration.  soit  par  la  second 
plat,  salon  la  caa.  Tous  lea  autres  exemplaires 
originaux  sont  fllmte  en  commenpant  par  la 
premiAre  page  qui  comporte  une  empreinte 
d'impression  ou  d'illustration  at  en  terminant  par 
la  derniAra  page  qui  comporte  une  telle 
•mprainta. 


The  laat  recorded  frame  on  each  microfiche 
shall  contain  the  symbol  -^^  (meaning  "CON- 
TINUED"!, or  the  symbol  V  (meaning  "END"). 
whichever  appliea. 


Un  das  symbolaa  suivants  apparaitra  sur  la 
darniAre  image  da  chaqua  microfiche,  selon  le 
cas:  la  symbols  ^^  signifia  "A  SUIVRE '.  la 
aymbolo  ▼  signifia  "FIN". 


Maps,  plates,  charts,  etc..  may  be  filmed  at 
different  reduction  ratios.  Those  too  large  to  be 
entirely  included  in  one  exposure  are  filmed 
beginning  in  the  upper  left  hand  corner,  left  to 
right  and  top  to  bottom,  as  many  frames  as 
required.  The  following  diagrams  illustrate  the 
method: 


Les  cartaa.  planches,  tableaux,  etc.,  peuvent  otra 
filmAs  i  das  Uux  da  reduction  dif firants. 
Lorsqua  le  document  est  trop  grand  pour  aire 
raproduit  en  un  seul  ciichi.  il  est  film*  i  partir 
de  Tangle  supArieur  gauche,  de  gauche  A  droite. 
et  de  haut  en  baa.  an  prenant  le  nombre 
d'imagea  nAcassaira.  Lea  diagrammes  suivants 
illustrant  la  mtthode. 


1 

2 

3 

1  2  3 

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MICROCOPY    RESOLUTION   TEST   CHART 

(ANSI  and  ISO  TEST  CHART  No   2) 


A     APPLIED  IIVl^GE 


■f-bj   [Qsl    Mam   street 

Wcchester.    New    York         14609       uSA 

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By    ROBERT    E.    KNOW  LES 


/o//'.    I'.dition 

ST.  CUTHBERT'S 

A    PARISH    UOMANCE 

NEW  YORK  Mail 

"  Mr.  Kni)u!i;s  has  a  sense  of  liumnr  that 
sjiarklcs  in  tlicse  im-;i-s,  a  SL'tmiae  love  cf 
humanity,  gentle  pa;  cnLe  wiiii  its  weakness, 
and  a  tine  re^oc^nitiMn  of  its  noble  qualities. 
The  book  is  vei^'  human." 

BOSTON  Hernid 

"The  bii.)I<  breathes  a  spirit  of  tenderness 
and  nobility,  uliicli  is  refreshint;  and  inspirin:;. 
Some  of  the  characters  deserve  a  special  setting 
so  lovinglv  has  this  bi;j;-hearted,  whole-souled 
man  written  them."' 

LONDON,  Daily  Chronicle 

"  Charming;,  fnll  of  piwky  Scots  humo'ir  and 
that  subtle  p.ithos  which  si^-ms  a  part  of  Scots 
huniour  and  liie.  .  .  .  Tliore  is  niar'.y  smile 
to  be  brnu^iit  frc.ni  tliese  p;'.;;ts,  and  not  a 
few  tears.  Mr.  KiiowKs  is  a  new  vriter  who 
promises  to  be  a  lii;lil  ii;  the  literary  tlrmament." 

EDINBURGH,  Scct.sman 

"It  would  bj  dirficuit  to  praise  too  hi>;hly  this 
new  work.  There  is  ve'y  litde  indeed  in  the 
ever-gr')win<?  literatui  d  that  school  which  can 
excel  Mr.  Kn.  wk'  tchcs  of  the  life  anil  do- 

ini.cs  in  a  Scot's  kirk  aiul  a  Scot's  commimity." 


^ 


-:'^^M:hh 


i=^;c3tei'iiPfc' ■ ,  ih 


THE  UNDERTOW 


A    r.'lLE    OF    BOTH 
SIDES  OF  THE  SEA 


KOIiE/^r  E.  KXOIVLES 
Author  of  -St.  Cnthbcrfs" 


New    York  Chicago  Toronto 

Fleming  H.  Reveli  Company 

London  and  Edinburgh 


fl 


^.-itsKgfli^^^'^ 


O  ^.  ^y     '    i 


Copyright,    1006,  by 
Fl  EMING  H.   REVELL  COMPANY 


New  York:  i=;S  Fifth  Avenue 
Cliicago:  80  Wnb:ish  Avunic 
Toronto:  25  Richmoiul  Street,  W. 
i':Ucrn()stor  Square 
100    I'rinces    Street 


London :    2 1 
Edinburgh: 


w^^^'W^m^^mBWm^. 


TO  ALL 
I5V  LIFE'S  rXLKRTOW  RESET 

■VHO  ARE  VFT  HRAVELY  STRn;,;LlX(J  ov 
A.\l>  ALREADY  TASTIXC 
IHE  VICTORY  OF  THE  SHORE 


CONTENTS 


I. 
II. 
III. 

IV. 

V. 

VI. 

vri. 
vm. 

IX. 
X. 

XJ. 

XII. 

xm. 

XIV. 
XV. 
XVI. 
XVIf. 

xvm. 

XIX. 

XX. 

XXI. 

XXII. 

XXIII. 


The  Valedictorian  . 

The  Last  of  the  Mortgage 

Hiram  Stirs  the  Pool 

The  Old  School  and  the  New 

In  the  Furnace  Twice 

The  Scholar  Leaves  ^0R  England 

London's  Preacher-Actor 

The  Metropolis  bvLami.lk.ht' 
A  Pearl  of  Price 

Its  Casket  for  a  Night 
Hattie  and  the  Commander 
The  Church  of  the  Cov£N,^.vT 
A  Light  in  the  Window  . 
A  Humble  Rival 
The  General  and  the  War 
The  Duel  in  Hvde  Park  . 
An  Edinburgh  Voice 
Pursuing  t«e  Precious  Pearl 
O'-D  Scenes  and  Old  Struggles 
Hiram's  Priest 
A  Double  Life 
Hattie  and  Hir^m  Meet 
Gathering  Clouds 

*  •  . 

7 


9 
23 

38 

54 
64 

77 
8y 

96 
103 

"S 

124 

144 

160 

171 

181 

'99 
211 

229 

242 

2J8 


282 
291 


H 


I;? 


8  CONTENTS 

XXIV.  The  Gru'  of  the  U.ndertow    . 

XXV.  Ashes  on  the  Hearth      . 

XXVI.  The  Breaking  of  the  Day 

XXVII.  ««  And  Go  Unto  Mv  Father  " 

XXVIII.  The  Prodigal's  Crusade 

XXIX.  London  and  the  Chase    . 

XXX.  The  Way  of  the  Cross  . 

XXXI.  The  New  Covenant 


301 

3'4 
324 
334 
340 
354 
381 

399 


t^i 


THE  UNDERTOW 


'K 


The   y/ILEDICTORIAN 

KD  now  it  is  my  privilege  to  a,vard  the 
highest  academic  honour  of  the  year,  the 

scholar  of  tte  "'  T'"''  '°  ^'^  '°  ""=  ^-'  ^"  """<< 
scholar  of  the  graduating  class.     The  stru-^cle  has 

culty ,    but   It  has   bef-    fairly   ,von   by  a  student 
v^hose  honours  are  already  thick  upon  him.    Tm 
rncemore'"^'"""^""'  '"  ^"""^  '^  "- P'^f"™ 
The  Chancellors  kindly  eyes  are   turned  toward 
the  quarter  of  the  hall   from  which   the  prLemt 

formats  r  i"" "";"'"''  ^""""» "  "'''■™"- 

lorm  starts  slowly  up  the  aislf>      a  ^«. 

-^ti.o.,HLu::^.„^-;::j:^- 

floated  over  the  audience  :  "^"  "^''^^ 

"  '^'^'y  •'"'^^^  that  in  the  coming  time 
Great  tilings  would  he  achieve  • 
They  thought  his  name  should  ,ort  of  rhyme 
And  so  they  called  him  Steve." 

The  audience  turned  and  looked  up  to  the  galleiy, 

9 


ii 


10 


■THE    UNDERTOlV 


where  the}-  saw  a  stalwart  figure  in  gown  and  cap, 
gravely  performing  his  laureate  task. 

This  poetic  outburst  provoked  fresh  billows  of  ap- 
plause, amid  which  the  triumphant  made  his  way  to 
the  platform,  the  master  of  ceremonies  greeting  him 
with  some  words  of  eulogy  that  were  swallowed  up 
as  soon  as  launched,  like  toy  boats  in  a  storm. 

When  the  demonstration  had  subsided,  Stephen 
Wishart  looked  first  at  the  gallery,  thronged  with 
his  fellow  students  ;  then  turned  his  pale  face  to  the 
Chancellor,  the  latter  less  formidable  than  the  others. 
The  students  hush  each  other  into  silence,  for  it  is 
evident  that  the  man  on  the  dais  has  something  he 
wants  to  say.  Still  Stephen  stands,  gazing  at  the 
gallery. 
"  Speech,  Steve." 

"  Come  away,  Wishart— let  us  have  it ;  turn  on 
the  eloquence." 

"  Shut  up,  he's  going  to  sing— like  the  lark  at  the 
diggings,"  cried  still  another  student,  who  was  well 
up  on  Dickens,  though  he  had  failed  on  Homer. 

The  Chancellor  held  his  hand  up  towards  the 
gallery. 

"You  will  excu.--,}  Mr.  Wishart  just  now,  .,entle- 
men.  He  is  to  deliver  the  valedictory  a  little  later, 
as  you  know." 

But  Stephen  interrupted  boldly,  finding  his  tongue 
at  last. 

"  Mr.  Chancellor,"  he  began  in  a  very  shaky  voice, 
silence  settling  as  he  spoke,  "  a  word  is  all  I  want  to 
Sc-'      I  do  not  deserve  this  medal.     It  isn't  rightly 


The    I^ALEDICTORIAN  ,, 

mine.     It  ought  to  go  to  one  who  is  a  better  scholar 
and  a  better  man  ;  to  one  who  would  have  had  it  in 
h.s  hand  this  minute,  if  a  feeble  frame  and  an  attack 
of  sickness  had  not  handicapped  him."    And  stepping 
to  the  edge  of  the  platform  and  pointing  at  a  white" 
faced  lad  whose  pallour  changed  to  scarlet  as  all  eyes 
were  turned  on  him,  "  Every  one  of  us  knows  who  he 
«s.     Mr.  Chancellor,  I  might  take  the  medal,  but  the 
honour   is  his  and   I  wish  he   might  have   both " 
fhe  speaker  paused  as  if  astonished  at  what  he  had 
done  and  hurriedly  regained  his  seat  amid  such  a 
salvo  of  cheers  and  clapping  as   the  old  hall  had 
never  heard  before. 

The  graduating  exerc.ses  were  resumed,  proceed- 
ing a  httle  tamely  auer  the  tension  that  Stephen 
VVisharts  renouncement  had  created,  even  the  jxal- 
lery  sails  flapping  in  the  waning  breeze. 

But  they  soon  swelled  again,  -.he  wind  returning 
when  :t  was  announced  that  the  hero  of  the  evening 
would  now  deliver  the  valedictory  address.     Some 
thmg  hke  seriousness  came  over  the  students'  faces 
especially  of  the  men  graduating  in  theology,  as  their' 
spok^man  ascended  the  steps  to  discharge  the  duty 
they  had  ..trusted  to  him  ;  for  they  vaguely  recog- 
nized the  solemn  significance  of  it  all,  their  very  mirth 
bearing  the  pathos  of  its  last  boisterous  shout.     Even 
amid  the  hilarity  of  the  night,  they  could  hear  the 
slowly  opening  gate  that  led  to  another  lock  in  life's 
long  canal;    could  hear  the    dull   scraping  of  that 
gangway  by  which  they  must  embark,  leaving  the 
•and-locked  bay  for  the  shoreless  sea  beyond 


12 


■THE    UNDERTOW 


I ; 


Splendid  was  the  type  of  manhood  represented  in 
Stephen  VVishart  as  he  stood  before  them.  Tall  and 
athletic,  in  the  strong  joy  of  perfect  health,  hand- 
some of  face  as  he  wai  commanding  of  form,  the  in- 
tellectual power  that  nature  had  bestowed  and  culture 
had  enriched,  was  enhanced  by  great  physical  vigour 
and  pronounced  magnetic  charm. 

Great  strength  marked  his  face.  And  struggle 
too  ;  struggle  and  peril,  the  very  peril  that  belongs  to 
a  certain  kind  of  strength,  and  the  very  struggle 
that  loftier  natures  are  ever  doomed  to  know.  For 
there  ia  a  kind  of  strength  that  others  feel  more  than 
the  man  who  bears  it,  and  those  who  admire  know 
not  at  what  a  price  it  is  enjoyed. 

Stephen  Wishart's  power  was  of  the  emotions, 
and  a  discerning  eye  could  tell  that  his  face  was  the 
highway  for  their  intensest  action.  Affection,  poetic 
feeling,  glowing  ardour,  flowing  sympathy,  all  min- 
gled in  his  nature,  bringing  their  peril  with  their 
charm.  The  mystic  gift  of  a  creative  fancy,  the  very 
thing  that  Israel's  sweet  singer  found  at  once  his 
solace  and  his  snare,  was  Stephen's  birthright.  This, 
joined  with  rare  mental  ability,  was  his  jewel  gift  ; 
and,  like  other  jewels,  endangered  the  very  life  that 
it  enriched. 

His  voice,  rich  of  tone  and  deep  of  feeling,  had 
yet  a  note  of  sadness,  as  though  it  knew  a  secret 
path  to  some  hidden  grave.  Those  who  had  ears  to 
hear  could  have  told,  as  his  stately  speech  flowed  on, 
that  there  had  been  conflict  in  the  past,  still  more  of 
conflict  in  the  days  to  come. 


The    VALEDICTORIAN  ,3 

byt  dS;!;TT  T  ""'^'  "^•^^'  ^'^'-  ^"^'--  thrilled 
Dy  it^  chaste  and  glowing  eloquence 

f^  IT',  LJucMc  on  the  armour  and  rro   forMi 

to  life  s  long  battle      Life's  hnffi     r  '"  ^o   '^'th 

est  stru.^e   shnH   h  '     '^^■' "'^^^'"^ -^t""' 

ono.  "^  ^'  "°^'  ""-^'"^t  outward   foes  or 

opposing  circumstances,  but  against  secret  0^^' 
against  ghostly  adversaries,  ag^^lnst  ^rLc^  l^eT  S 
powers,  against  some  festering  memory,  some  bes^ 

Deep  stillness  reigned  over  the  student  thronir  so 

W  :,,et"'  '"',*=^  ^*  *«  ^'^Phen  „rd';:^ 
'"f>  ^\itn  tlie  very  realities  of  life 

.on'a?..T:  ::'  H  °;'"«  "■"■■'' "  '™'  -  '"^  -ledlc 
'  '  '^  ^  '•"^  dilferent  one  from  the  kst  tl„t  i 
have  spoken,  but  one  that  should  be  utter  do„, 

is  finishing  his  course  ^JJ  '  ^^^"'■''  "'^' 

For    this    supremely,   that  a   brother,   less 


un 


>4 


THE    UNDERTOIV 


worthy  far  than  he,  might  scan  the  ample  page  of 
knon-ledgc,  rich  with  tlie  spoils  of  time,  entering  into 
the  labours  of  that  humble  worker  whose  onlj-  re- 
q'  .al  is  the  secret  joy  of  the  unselfish  soul.  I 
know  of  one  who  would  lay  his  laurels  at  that 
brother's  feet." 

The  responsive  spirits  of  the  gallery  were  not  slow 
to  catch  the  significance  of  his  words,  nor  less  tardy 
to  acclaim. 

Long  and  loud  and  lusty  was  the  volley  that 
marked  the  close  of  his  address,  the  students  turning 
one  to  the  other  the  while,  wondering  if  the  tribute  to 
these  unnamed  benefactors  were  founded  on  his  own 
experience.     The  desired  information  was  soon  forth- 


commg. 


"  Of  course  he  means  his  own  brother,"  one  of  the 
theologues  assured.  "  I  visited  at  his  father's  farm 
last  Chr '  tmas  and  he  has  described  his  elder  brother 
to  a  nicety— he's  a  brick,  too." 

"\ou  don't  say  so,  what's  his  name?  "cried  the 
poet. 

"Reuben,"  answered  the  informant;  "they  call 
him  Rube." 

Armed  with  which,  and  waiting  till  the  din  had 
fallen,  the  poet  rose  to  his  feet  and  called  to  the  ex- 
cited crowd, 

"  I  say,  boys,  I  know  his  name— his  name  is  Rube, 
that  pure  gold  fellow  on  the  farm.  Three  cheers' 
for  Rube,  I  say— for  all  the  Rubes,  everywhere— three 
cheei-s,  hip,  hip " 

And  the   collegians    did   the   rest,  arts  men  and 


svKiS^muf^ 


■The    i^ALEDlCTORlAN  ,5 

theologucs.  science  men  and  medicals  lending  their 
stoutest   ungs  to  the  echoing  pane,n-ric. 

rhe   Chancellor   cleared  h,s   thr  ....  for    the   du-t 
--  ny,ng;   when  he  broke  the  s.ience  that  rrme 
a    last    lus  vo:ce   still   bore  a  huskmess  tha^  so;^' 
thing  else  had  caused. 

vour'lT^  K-tlemen."  he  began.  ••  the  rhetoric  of 
your  g.fted  valedictorian,  charnnng  as  it  was.  is  still 
l-s  eloquent  than  the  generous  action  that  ue  a 
admired;  and  his  genius  has  been  worthily  loai  e^l   o 
the  g  ea    Mbute  which  closed  his  speech.      I  love 
you  an   for  your  noble   response  to   it.  and  I  .ay  • 

God  bless  the  kuoes  '  (isn't  tnat  the  name  ^;  I  came 
from  the  fuin  myself  and  n,y  h.art  echoes  eC 
word  of  Mr.  Wisharts.  God  bless  the  Rub^.; '  a^d 
the  gent  e  teacher  paused,  awaiting  the  ans  vering 
artillery  from  the  gallery.  ^ 

As   the   scattering   throng,   the   exercises    of  the 

admill""'  ""  '""^  '''''-'''  °"^  °^  ^'-  hall,  many 
adm  nng  eyes  were  turned  toward  the  young  divin- 
ity student  who  had  thus  closed  hi-  rin     ^        '" 
w.th  such  Signal  distinction:°1.:.t';;j     t^^^^^^ 

others,  for  he  had  g.ven   his  arm  to  an  elderly  ladv 
whos^  resemblance   to   himself  at   once  anno'unc  ^ 

tLLt  r    T     ^"''*  '"'  ^^"^'^^  --  the  face 
bv  suff.  f  '"'''"''''  ""''  ^'•^^hant  son.  marked 

nL  "r.^  '       ^"'"^  ''''^'"'^'  °^*he  bodily  weak- 
strong  TTT'""  '"'■  '""  ^-P<^"dence  on  the 
trong  arm  he  had  extended.     The  beauty  of  peace 
looked  out  from  her  gentle  eyes,  minghng  with  the 


i6 


THE    USDERTOIV 


purity   ami    pouer   whic!,    marked    a    devout    and 
prayertii!  soul. 

And  just  behind.  stoopJn.c:  uith  the  jjrouinjr  U'ci-ht 

bcarm.     lendm.r    an    .mpress.on    of  sin.plicity    and 
gooc  Kss.  cauK.  Stephen  W.sharfs  father,  las  .Hance 
hke    d,e    mother's,  rest.n,   p.oudly    on    Ins  aecom 
phshed  and  distinguished  son 

The  sarb  of  both  these  elder  folk  uas  plam  and 
-Mmple.  eontrasting  strangely  uith  the  r.ch  appare' of 

tr:rtd;t::^''^"'^-^''^-^''^-^-"-'^-^^^^ 

Ingh  and  honourable  hearts  can  clothe  the  humblest 
Ihey  had  walked  some  distance  along  the  street 
when  his  mother  said  : 

"  ^"""f  ''''  sang  some  way  that'll  no  hae  sae 
mony  folk,  Stephen  ?  " 

'•Yes  mother.  I  think  we  can;  there  s  a  short  cut 
to  your  hotel  through  this  street  here.  But  it's  rather 
uaric 

They  had  ,,roceeded  but  a  little  farther  ,vhen  the 
-man    paused,   turnin,   her    faee   up„,rd   to    ier 

■•  Stephen,  my  :  „]dio,  kiss  n,e_oh.  Stephen  n,v 
heart  s  ever  full  to  .peak-  ,  cudna  keep  L  aZ 
ye  were  shpp.n'  ,„,v  frac  n,e.  ,vi'  a'  the  grau.  thin." 
l^y  were  sa,J„'  aboot  ye-but  IV  ;  'r'^.th.-r  aTd 
Ira  sae  prood  o'  ye;  kiss  „,e,  n„-  laddie"  and  her 
arm  stole  about  his  neck  i„  the  dark    .l,  rotd.n" 


-msjti.- 


■Tf'c     I^AI.EDICTORIAS  ,7 

him  close  in  jcalo,.  l.,vc.  brcathi,,,  out  her  pnde 
^  and  her  devotion.  ' 

*  "Come,  come."  the  father  inte.rupted  from  be- 
h'nd.  "s.c  hke  dacin'.-.  on  a  city  street  tl^v^ll  1 
^^^inycbaithtiUu.e.ocI.,p.  ^ut^^^"  ^l  .^ 
Stephen,  my  son;  yir  hijjhest  honour  the  n.cht  w"' 
when  ye  would  have  yon  puir  ladd.e  tak  the  med." 
I  ^^^s  feart  the  folk  wad  see  me  ,reetin -and  ,' 
m.ther  ask.t  me  for  my  kerch.ef ;  she  said  she  .^n 

ye"v-;vr     ?'•  "^f-'  ^'''  ^^^"  the  minister  on 
ye.  try  n    to  mak  me  believe  a  lee  hke  that,  wi'  'he 
car.  r,nmn-  doon  j-ir  cheeks  a'  the  t.mc.     YeVea 
sly  ym.  Jean,  my  wumman." 

d.-.H?'' '  ""u  '"""'^  'P""'''"S  of."  their  son  replied 
disclamimg  the  eulogy •  "it  was  nn  m        .u       !. 
rirrhf  fi  ■       .      ,       K>  .     11  was  no  more  than  the 
nght  thmo.  to  do.     Rube  would  have  done  it  and 
never  thought  of  it."  ^ 

To"  ^W  r'"'  o"'  ^"■'"  ^'■"""  ^^°°t  R'^^ben,  faither  ? 
To  th.nk   oor  Reuben  had  his  name  cried  cot  afore 
a  thae  great  folk  at  the  colle-e     But  .>  ,.. 
as  he  deserved,  .he  ,.,id  Wndlad l^J^I^r  -" 

like  rA  "^''"'  '■"  '"'''''"''■  "  "''  "o  ="■<="  a  laddie 
.ke  Reuben  gets  a  degree  like  yon,  and  him  s.ttii 
n  the  kilchen,  takkin  aff  his  boots  „f  the  boo^  k 

nne.  yon  Chancellor,  as  thev  call  h.-n      Mm 

h«r.   c*     u  .  .  •^  "'*"•      **  ill  ye  come 

steps.  ..but  theyi,  ken  uha  I  an,  noo^l,  hoW  'e 


I 


^^smM,^L£im^^^jZ^:&:''jsrs^Ub>^SETM:£^s7^Bxi:^ 


I8 


•THE    UNDERTOW 


They  11  ken  wha's  faither  I  am,  onyu-ay-u-e  can 
grow  ma.r  than  turnips  on  oor  land,  can't  we,  mither  ? 
-and  he  belongs  till  ns  bakh.  even  il  we  dinna  wear 
a.  ne  claes  as  some  folk  ;  "  and  the  old  man  swelled 
u.th  necessary  pnde  as  he  passed  into  the  hall,  look- 
ing U'.th  the  eye  of  a  proprietor  on  the  graciou  form 
tha^^leaned  so  fondly  on  her  tall  and  handsome  son 

fo.   tne  hour  was  late,  and  the  homeward    ournev 

"t  at  T:  °"  ""  '"°"°^^--     "^  ^^'^  ^'--  SooZ 

low  .    "'  °'''^''''  '■°°'"'  his  father's  voice  fol- 

lowuig  him  down  the  hail. 

Steny"'   \'-^'"''  '°  h"'P  "^  '^"'■"  the  mortgage 

The  old  man  turned  and  reentered  his  room.     His 

ifLJZr/l  °"  '"  '''■  ^"'  ^^^  husband  looked 
at  her  fondly  for  a  moment,  then  went  over  and  took 
her  face  in  his  hands. 

J^:''"''"''^'  ■^"""'  y^''^  tired  clean   oot.  are  ye 
no  ?         He   sat   down    beside    her    and    she    Hd 
her  head  on  his  shoulder,  her  hand  finding  t  .t  1 
known  way  into  the  hard  palm  that  had  had  so  much 

-u"  ^'7  rT-  '"'PP^'  ^°hert,  I'm  fearin',"  she  an- 
swered, looking  up  into  his  face.  "  Oh  faith'r  it 
seems   wunnerfu'.  does  it  no'    th.f  ■     u     ' 

ci,^   .jt  "°'   'hat  oor  am  ba  rnie 

'earned.      But  I  m    mair   upliftit   that   he's 
to  be  a  minister  o'  the  Everlastin'   Gospel.     We've 


i 


■The    I^ALEDICTORIAN  ,9 

toiled   sair.  fa.ther.  but  the  reward  is   bonnie.  is  it 

"Aye  mither.  God's  been  guid.  WeVe  h.d 
muckle  joy  ,„  baith  oor  bairn.'  Mebbe  veVe  no 
sae  prood  o'  Reuben  as  h,s  bnther-Reuben  nucht 
hae  been  a  wee  thing  smarter,  nae  doot.  but  3^ 
canna  hae _"  ^ 

But  the  mothers  face,  flushed  a  little,  is  hfted  now 
n-om  her_  husband  s  shoulder,  her  protest  foreshad^ 

'•  Dmna  say  that.  Robert,  dinna  say  that.  Reubens 
mebbe  no  sae  quick  wi'  the  learnin'  as  his  brither  • 
he  was  aye  slower  wi'  the  buiks.  nae  doot.  But  he 
can  read  gey  weel.  and  he's  handy  wi'  the  pen 
foibye.  he  never  had  a  chance.  Ye  ken  weel 
faither.  how  Reuben  bided  hame  frae  the  school ;  an' 
he  aye  sa.d  Stephen  was  to  hae  the  learnin'  bein' 
qu.cker  nor  himsel'.  he  said.     And  oh.  faith'er"" 

an'IiZ'.'V't'"^  now-.,  he's  been  sae  guid 
an  faithfu  hes  been  sae  true,  faither.  an'  sae 
unselfish.^     Stephen's  no'  sae  unselfish  as  his  brither! 

band?;!'  '  '^u'  ■^''"'  ""^  ''""''"""  ^  "  ^••'^d  her  hus- 
ba  d.  h.s  eyebrows  lifted  and  a  queer  quizzing  smile 

m  he  eyes  beneath  them,  .•  what's  that  ye're  sayin' ' ' ' 

against  the  ladd.e  we're  sae  prood  o'  the  nicht.  But 
he  s  no  sae  self-forgettin'  by  nature  a.s  oor  Reuben, 
day  m  an    day  oot.  I'm  meanin'.     xNaebody  is_an' 


20 


■THE    UNDERTOIV 


I  rn  juist  as  prood  c'  Reuben  as  the  ither.  I  thocht 
o  Kcubcn  tlic  nicht  when  Stephen  .alk.t  up  the  a.sle 
w.     he  folk  a-  cheenn'  h.m.      I  thocht  o'  Reuben 

"an '"a'  T  Tu'  '"^  '"^  '''  '''''  *'"  ^^e  gloa W 
-an    a    the   laddie,   pnde  for   his    clever   brither 

the'n  T  :'       '''"'"'  '''  ^^''^^"  ^^  --  Step     n 

ans^IalX'   '^"^^''  '^^"   ^'^°'-  '^^  ^-^  -^ 
"  I'm   hopin-   he'll   no'  preach   the   theology  yon 

Professor  g.ed  us  in  his  prayer  the  nicht."  ^ 

"  ^Vhatever  are  ye  meanin',  faither  ?  " 

I'l^  fear^^'he"-'"'  '''  7"^  *'"  '''""'  J^"'  ^^^ 
1  m    leann    he    ,sna    soond.      I'm   sure   o't.      And 

Stephen  thinks  it's  r.cht  eneuch-he  tell't  .e  that 
afore  An  he  sa.d  he'd  like  fine  to  gang  till  Edin- 
burgh  to   get  the  latest  learnin'." 

"  What's  that  yeVe  sayin',  Robert  ?     The  laddie 

maunna  leave  us  noo.     What  wasna  soond,  faither  ?' 

Never  mind,  Jean,"  her  husband  answered  gently  • 

fog.es  ye  ken,  m.ther.     An'  noo  we'll  gang  to  rest  • 
ye  re  tired,  mither."  ^  ' 

it'll  nn-'k^^^"      ^'"^  ''^"^  ''''■'  ^"'  times,   I  think 

-Pit  yir  ;  d"-'  '■'  '"^  ^^^^'^  ^'-  -^  ^'-  needin' 
pit  J  ir  hand  on  my  heart,  failher  " 

Jean  lifted  the  furro.vcd  palm  and  it  rested  ^en- 

tte^d°;t?r^°^""°"™'--*^'-'^"" 

•■Di„navexyirser,my)assie;itsthesa,„eauld 


The    yALEDlClORlAN  2\ 

faithfu'  heart  that's  cheered  my  ain  sae  lang  I 
wadna  trade  it  for  ony  ,  the  land;  God  blesf  ye. 
m  t  e  for  a  Us  been  to  me.  Come,  my  bonnl^ 
v^ell  leave  at  m  oor  FaUher'.  keepin'/'  as  he  gently 
drew  her  down  beside  the  bed.  their  hearts  together 
stealmg  into  the  pavilion  of  eternal  love. 

Th.    following  day  was  fadn,g  into  twilight  as  two 
eager  faces  peered  from  the  window  of  the  train 
"Look     mither.    look,    there's     Burnetts'    place 

a"'  thar'^n"'"""^"-'"'  ^'^  ^^^^^'-  >'-"-•   -^' 
-an    thats  Bessie  there,  see.  wi'  the  flowers  in  her 

see   us      T  '  '°"'^  '''''''  '^  ^^^  "'^'  '     She  canna 

snl    ;        T^  '"    °°'  ^^"^^  '"  "^^^  ^  bonnie  pair 
some  day.  eh,  mither  ?  "  ^ 

Jean  VVishart  smiled :  "  I'm  hopin'-an'  I  wadna 

ZC  T't  ^'^-'"^ '  ^^""^  '^-p  ^-  ^^ 

Mebbe  I  m  wrang.  but " 

"Hoots.  Jean,  yeVe  aye  sair  feart  for  Reuben- 
J^s  naethm' but  her  admiration  for  a  scholaraddie.' 
Noo  were  at  the  station-I  see  yir  treasure,  mither- 

thrct: -'  '"'  ''""  '^  ^'^  ^^^^-^'""-  -"-  b'"e 

hamrhr""'"  '''"'  ''^  ""'"^  ^""  ^'""-d  three 
happy   home-goers    m    its   dying   rays,    old    Prince 

joggmg  as  slowly  along  the  country  road  as  though 

peace  T,Tl''  ^"'"  '''  ""'•  ^^^^-^cd  I's 
peace.  The  father  and  mother  sat  erect,  sniffin-  the 
sweet  country  air.  belauding  the  flowers  and  blossoms 


I 


22 


THE    UNDERTOIV 


hat  enriched  it,  defining  the  atmosphere  of  the  city 
they  have  eft  behind  in  terms  of  frank  ingratitude. 

And  before  them  sat  the  stalwart  form  of  their 
first-born  son.  his  face  suffused  uith  happiness  as  he 
h^ened  o  the  composite  narrative  of  h'  brother's 
high  distuKfon,  the  parental  tongues  flying  in  fervid 
eu  ogy.  the  son's  eyes  beaming  with  dehght.  The 
pa  e  cast  of  thought  was  not  upon  his  brow,  but  the 
ight  of  a  pure  and  earnest  hfe  was  there  instead,  a 
hfe  whose  highest  attainments  had  been  those  of  an 
unselfish  heart. 

He  turned  his  head  towards   his  mother  as  they 
passed  in  the  gate.  ^ 

.ZLfTl^'"""  °"'  that  very  gate  when  he  first 
started  to  the  college."  he  saia  proudly,  -and  I'll 
drive  him  in  again.     I  always  said  he'd  cut  a  swath 

our'stevr'  '"  '""'"^'  '  ^""^'  ''^>^  ^""^'^"'^  ^^-^ 


II 


The  LAST  of  The  MORTGAGE 


"T-p^^ 


^VVAS  maist  awfu'  kind  o'  the  Duke  !  A 
hundred  pounds— that's  five  times  as 
mony  dollars— maist  five  hundred  dol- 
lars !  And  it  looks  bonny  to  see  the  Kelso  post- 
mark agam !  I  wonder  did  the  Duke  post  it  himsel' 
wr  his  am  hands.  A  hundred  pounds,  it's  a  lot  o' 
siller  !  " 

"  j^^^'^,^*  ^^'^y  did  he  come  to  send  it,  faither,  div  je 

"  What  way,  Jean  ?-\\'hat  way  ?  Read  the  letter 
frae  the  Duke  himsel'.  It's  his  sixtieth  birthday,  and 
It  was  my  faitner  that  drawed  him  oot  o'  the  burn 
when  he  was  a  laddie  in  petticoats-and  him  like  to 
drown  !  And  my  faither  did  him  mony  a  ^md  turn 
forbye  that.  He  served  on  the  estate  long  years  •  and 
so  did  his  faither  afore  him.  That's  the  way  he  came 
to  send  It,  Jean,  ma  wumman— no  itherway,"  answered 
Jean's  radiant  husband,  his  strong  face  glowin^  be- 
neath the  frosting  locks.  '"^ 

"  Wliatever  will  yc  dae  wi't  a',  faither?"  resumed 
the  good  wife,  settling  herself  by  the  fire  for  the  deli- 
cious conference. 

A  smiling  blaze  broke  forth  irom  the  old  fireplace 
as  Jean  s  familiar  form  drew  closer  to  it  The  back 
log  seemed  to    '-el   her  innuence  and  stiniulatcd  its 

2' 


^ 


24 


THE    UNDERTOIV 


li^e  room  it  u-arnied  and  beautified  u-I  th  '^  ''"• 
room  or  tl,e  cl^cerfui  rusdc  houe  built  )t  ''"*"^' 
o<  the  land  nh.ch  Robert  VvlsW  'V^' "T'" 
selected  as  his  homo^u^.^        ^visnartb    father   had 

-.tudeorioSr^st^r^r^^^^^^^^ 

the  Western  world.  strugghng  freedom  of 

About  this  hospitable  fire  ^tr^„ 

on  m,,„y  a  .vin.^  ni.H.tir^lr  0,1^ '"'' 

the  common  oeril  inH  tu  ,  ^"-"^^  °'  the  forest, 

''lune  can  k„o„.  He  had  JJ"™*  "  *''  P-"«r 
»■=  days  hard  confl  1  ^  ?"  "°""  '"  "^"^ 
stumps  cndin,.  /„""',     '*  ''T^  '"g^  <"■  «"bbor„ 

'cminiscence  of  old  W  °"f  ""^  ^™'^'  '^''«'  "=">'  a 
"■•  the  fir     dav.  If,         T  '  °'  ""=  '°"S  «»  ^^age 
cheery  bLe'         ""'  ""'^'"P'  "'"S'-g  with  ti' 

in  t'crt::;7e:fj::;.rr  ^*^  "■"'■■-«  ^g- 

have    .heir  coforaZ  "' '  te   I "^  """ '° 
mortr  ace  was  ,„  h  T  gloivinj;   hands—the 

".eir'rSf:,  Lrls  ^.,Zf,'Z^  ""  "■"^-"  °< 
■■  Whatever  :«;:!*  ,;!,'^7,^"°f*-^  Peace, 

again,  more  eagerly  th"   h  f'     '  f  ^"^ '     ■''^" ^'^=1 

«."  ga..ng  intoth^ leap" 'f^z' '" ""  ""^^"^  "^ 

"  that'll  I  dae  ui>  ^  "  , 

''-vcbeenthink::'::hat  T^rnn"^'"^*'^^^^^ 
to  take  the  b,t  o' paper  to  H,.,,  '^''"^  ^'"  ^^^^  '^ 
.-t  the  siller  for -'l  ^nUo"     "  '"^  ''''^''  ^"^ 

^■^^1    't    in    my   hand      v        T '''"" ''^^''''" '^ '^"^ 
y    h^ncl.      Ao    sdler    exactly,  mebbe 


The  LAS 


of  The  MORTGAGE 


25 


>v-  mai..  a,vfu'  kind  o'  the  DuK-  ••  '  """'•  ""' " 

fcver  was   spe„,  a'd    1  ,e    "h  "T  '"^"^  '°"" 

paper  out  ancu-  upon  1  s\„       T"''  "'=  "'"S''^ 

elapses,  „„chan,i„/:^,''L';r,;„lll.''""7r 
wondrous  message  over  a^-,;n      »'°S ''Sh'.  ^d  the 

towards  his  vvifet-  ^     '        "  '"'"'•■''  ™'"ng 

,"  '^''  ""■  '™nderful  the  power  o'  a  h,>  „■ 
when  a  Duke  tals  ■,  „„.  o   a  bit  o   paper 

dinna  like  to  gi  t>  the      "      "'  ""  '°"'' ''"'' '     ' 
a  sa,r  comfort;'      '^        ''^'"""'  '  '='"  «'=  '■"'••rll  be 

in  -!weMn"^"' *::id':r """  ^•^■"  «='  "'=  "-<= 
■•  Hoots,  «™::?Tiw,,r""v=^"- 

hae  his  name  a.  thefo  „ 't , ' T,™"^  -'  -  '  We 
he  wrot.  ,t  himsel'.  Well  'vl  i  V  "="'  "'-''"=' 
sare;  but  I'll  write  and  f  1.  ,''*"■>'' ™V  be 
that.-  ^"''  "'='"''  ''""  *e  morn,  for  a' 

>"''*etr'"lfu:  ;.:  ^T""  »'  *=  -■«"■  ■•  he's  bonn, 

«o  dae  wi   the  l':*t,!;re    "Vt''-^'^^™'"^^^ 
tile  bank,  will  y.  ?  •■    ^'      *"'     ^  >= "  ""  leave  it  in 

no"dt'  .;:•;:!::::-<!  '-j'-ba„d  prompt,,. .,  ,„ 

A  man's  ain  hoos^lVl,  "7 ''"^M  ways  forme. 

concernin-  „",at  I  I  Z'"fT  '°'  '"'^  ^"'"-     ^"d 
«-i  ■   1  ■   .  "  "^^  ^^'1 1  after  I  rrpf  ,>     t-      u 

thmkin'  aboot   that,  as    I   tell't  ye      I  • ""''" 

'^'-"  '  >e.     Its  no    to  be 


r  i 


(  i 


26 


■THE    UNDERTOW 


scattered  foolishly.  I'm  thinkin'  some  o'  gi'en  a 
pickle  o't  to  Stephen-he's  wantin'  mair  He's 
mind.t  to  gang  till  Edinburgh,  as  I  tell't  yc;  but  it'll 
no^be  scattered  foolishly,  an'  that's  a'  I  can  say  the 

He  stopped,  for  footsteps  could  be  heard  without 
the    door;    uhich.   opening    suddenly,   adrnittc:   a 
comely  form  upon  whom  the  eyes  of  both  fell  ^^  uh  a 
distmct   tenderness    of   affection.     It    was  Reuben 
whose  glowing  cheeks  and  brawny  arms  confirmed' 
the  suggestion  of  his  liomely  garb,  that  the  stern 
toil    of  the   farm   and   its   rich   rewards    were   his. 
His  eye  beamed  with  the  light  of  honour  and  con- 
tentment, beautifully   blent,  his   face   enriched  with 
much  of  nature's  kindliest  gift.     This  was  now  in- 
tensified  by  the   smile   of  happiness  which  played 
upon  ,t,  as  became  the  bearer  of  good  tidings. 
^^'' Steve's  home,"  he  said  quietly,  as  he  closed  the 

n.r7t' K  T^  '"?'""  '"'^  '^^  '■"^^^'•' "  he  promised 
me  he  d  be  here  the  nicht.     Where  is  he.  Reuben  ?  " 

I  left  him  at  the  gate."  answered  the  elder  sou  ; 

he  was  talking  to  Mr.  Shearer.     I  drove  him  from 

who  H  M  k'"''"""'^  '^'"  ""^  ^°"^'"S  '".^^ther; 
who  should  be  the  first  to  rejoice  .nth  those  who 
rejoice,  If  it  isn  t  the  minister  ?  And  there'll  be  many 
Fll  nH  TT  '°"''  "^  ''^'"^  ^^"^  the  window-the 
th  wf;  ?:.""'""■  '"  G^'^-Pies.-they're  all  on 
the  way  and  that  gray  team  just  turning  in  the  gate, 
that  must  be  ihe  Oliv'pr«       Tf^  . 

frninr-  fo  V,       .      >^"\ers.      Its  a  grand  time  we're 
going  to  have  to-night." 


The  LAST  of  The  MORTGAGE      27 

"  Div  ye  ken,  Reuben,"  said  the  father,  "  what  I 
canna  help  but  think  o"  when  I  see  the  teams  drivin' 
sac  canty  to  the  door  ?  " 

"  Indeed  I  don't,"  the  son  replied.    "  What  is  it 
father  ?  "  ' 

"  I  canna  but  think  how  easy  it  is  noo,  and  how 
different  frae  my  faithers  time,  when  he  had  nocht 
but  a  blazed  trail  to  guide  him  hame.  It's  a  far  cry 
smce  then,  but  I  mind  it  weel-the  deep  snaw  and 
the  bitter  cauld  i'  the  winter  time,  and  the  hard  work 
fellin'  the  michty  trees,  and  siller  sair  scarce  forbye— 
but  thae  days  were  happy  days  for  a'  that,  and  nae 
man  wanted  leal  hearts  aboot  him,  and  a"  the  neebours 
was  knit  wi'  love  and  kindness.  And  the  guid  Lord 
set  His  seal  to  the  labours  o"  their  hands,  and  He  has 
done  as  muckle  for  us  tae,  has  He  no',  mither  ?  " 

This  reminiscent  hymn  was  checked  before  the 
mother's  voice  was  heard,  for  feet  were  stamping  at 
the  door.  It  opened  in  a  moment  and  the  good  man 
of  the  house  hurried  forward  to  welcome  the  ap- 
proaching  guests. 

"  Guid-nicht  and  welcome,  Mr.  Shearer ;  it's  wel- 
come ye  are  the  nicht ;  come  in  ;  draw  up  to  the 
fire,  we're  lucky  to  hae  a  chilly  nicht  for  this  time  o' 
the  year.  Weel,  Stephen,  my  laddie,  is  this  you  ? 
You're  welcome  hame,  my  son.  Reuben  tells  me  ye 
twa  hae  been  tryin'  a  bit  argyment  aboot  theology— 
that's  aye  the  thing  to  sharpen  the  wits,  as  my  faither 
used  to  say—the  bigger  the  grind-stone,  the  better 
the  blade,— that  was  his  way  o'  puttin'  it.  Tak  b-Ti, 
mither,  he's  as  muckle  yir  ain  as  ever." 


iVk 


w 


28 


THE    UNDERTOH^ 


The  woman  caressed  her  son  with  unwonted  ten- 
derness, jealous,  as  all  mothers  are,  of  widening  hori- 
zons, and  enlarging  spheres,  and  diverging  paths. 

"  It  is  ahva>  s  lovely  to  get  home,  mother  ;  there  is 
only  one  home  and  only  one  mother-a.ul  only  one 
supper  worth  the  eating,-  he  concluded,  "  no  matter 
how  many  fine  dinners  yuu  attend  in  what  they  call 
high  society." 

His  mother  flushed  witli  pleasure,  touched  with 
pride  »  High  society,"  and  her  oun  son  a  sharer  in 
It  .Jean  was  quite  feminine  enough  to  feel  the 
thrill  of  pride  that  this  rc.lcction  wakened. 

"Whenever  you  want  '  high  society,'  Stephen,  I 
advise  you  to  come  home.  I  have  seen  a  little  of  all 
kinds  mysell,  and  my  estimate  puts  these  old  folks  at 
the  top.  I  think  we  have  some  of  the  true  nobility 
right  here  beside  us_and  I  see  a  few  of  them  coming 
to  the  door." 

Th-s  spoke  Mr.  Shearer,  whose  quick  eye  detected 
much  pertaining  to  both  the  outwa.-d  and  the  in- 
ward life.  His  observation  of  the  former  was  evi- 
dently accurate  enough,  for  in  a  moment  a  light  rap 
fell  upon  the  door,  and  its  opening  revealed  a  group 
Of  the  honest  yeomanry  who  had  come  to  swell,  and 
to  share,  the  gladness  of  the  hour.  The  nobility  of 
character  with  which  the  minister's  kindly  thought 

hpd  clothed  them  was  obvious  almost  at  a  glance  • 

for  their  stalwart  frames,  their  genial  countenances. 

their   soulful  eyes,  all  spoke  of  simple  tastes   and 

nardy  toil  and  sweet  content. 

The  picturesque  hoods  of  the  women,  a  bonnet 


The  LAST  of  The  MORTGAGE      29 

here  and  there,  and  the  light  sliawls  which  wrapped 
the  willowy  forms  or  the  wavy  hair  o:  many  n  win- 
some maiden,  lent  a  pleasing  variety  to  the  interest- 
ing gioup. 

The  cordial  welcome  of  Robert  Wishart  and  his 
wife  was  as  cordially  accepted  and  only  a  few  mirth- 
ful minutes  had  passed  before  the  whole  company 
was  seated  at  the  hospitable  board,  the  host  abdi- 
cating the  scat  of  honour  to  the  minister,  as  was  the 
custom  of  that  place  and  time.  The  Divine  blessing 
having  been  lengthily  invoked,  and  the  provocations 
to  human  gratitude  recounted  in  detail,  the  good 
man  led  the  way,  his  cheerful  parishioners  joining 
heartily  in  the  chase,  pursuing  to  its  lair  and  its  de^ 
struction  every  toothsome  thing  that  Jean  VVishart's 
culinary  genius  had  called  to  being. 

The  cheerful  supper  done,  the  company  returned 
to  the  fireplace.  Pipes  were  filled  and  lighted  with 
solemn  interest,  the  several  streams  of  smoke  finding 
their  confluence  at  the  chimney  mouth,  joining  hands 
and  disappearing  with  a  sudden  bound,  like  children 
escaping  through  a  schoolroom  door.  One  after  an- 
other of  the  worthy  farmers  gave  a  final  tap  to  adjust 
the  new-lighted  weed,  snapped  the  ashy  fire  from  the 
fingers,  and  planted  heavy  hob-nailed  boots  i  non 
the  trusty  fender,  settling  themselves  before  the  sym- 
pathetic flame  with  a  guttural  murmur  of  content. 

Then  the  ccnvcrsation,  hitherto  wortny  of  Babel, 
suddenly  began  to  flag ;  for  the  company,  sensitive 
to  the  significance  of  the  hour,  would  thus  afford 
their  host  his  opportunity. 


El 


30 


•THE    UNDERTOH^' 


'•  W.n  we  hac  the  cider  first,  faither,  or  after  ? " 
asked  Jean  m  an  undertone.  Robert  paused  a 
mo-ent.  It  uas  the  habit  of  his  hfe  to  answer  no 
ques  .on.  however  trifling  it  might  seem  to  be.  with- 
out due  reflection. 

wo'rd'noo'-    ''""  '^  ^"'  '^'     '^'^'"  ^^  °-  ^^ 

t  se tnd'  f7f  ^"  '^'°'''  "'^^^^"P^"  ^he  minister 
t^se  and  la.d  h.s  p.pe  upon  the  mantel,  a  signal  to 

come  to  order  that  was  immediately  recognized  by 

his  lellow  guests  and  almost  as  immediately  obeyed 

with  '?  T'  ^°''  ''°''  '"^  ^^-g^"  *°  speak,  not 
without  obvious  embarrassment  :  — 

"  My  freens.  I  bid  ye  a'  welcome  to  RosehiU  Farm 
^e  nicht.     YeVe  been  a'  here  afore,  mony  a  time  i" 
baith  joy  and  sorrow.     When  the  day  was  bricht  ye 
were  wi  us  oftentimes  ;  and  when  the  mirk  was  sair 
ye  were   oftener.     Some   o'  ye   helpit  to  build  the 
hoose  itsel  ;  and  ye  hae  aye  keepit  it  bricht  wi'  yir 
kindness  and  yir  love.     We  hae  warstled  through 
thegither;  and  noo  we're  rejoicin'  because  there's 
Docht  o    debt   upon  the  auld  place  ony  mair.     I've 
Lved  and  prayed  and  work     for  this  hour,  and  noo 
the  and  my  faither  settled  on,  and  cleared,  and  tilled 
^e  land  that  holds  his  restin'  form,  it's  oor  ain.  w-i' 
nae^Hm  against  it-and  the  guid  wife  has  done  it 
maidy   a-dinna   look   doon    like   that.   Jean,   ma 
v^umman  ;  ye  ken  I'm  but  tellin'  the  truth-and  Laith 
Jean  and  me  thank  ye  frae  our  hearts  " 

The  old  farmer  paused   for  a  moment,  his  hand 
forthgoing  to  the  breast  pocket  of  his  Sabbath  coat 


The  LAST  of  7he  MORTGAGE      31 

a  fine  garment  of  black  that  he  prized  all  the  more 
because  it  had  been  his  father's.  He  produced  there- 
from a  bulky  document,  almost  as  new  and  unfrayed 
as  when  his  father  first  had  signed  it ;  for  its  contents 
had  not  afforH-d  enjoyable  reading  to  the  Wishart 
household  since  it  became  their  own. 

"  It's  the  mortgage,"  Robert  said  simply  as  he 
drew  it  forth,  unfoldmg  it  the  while  and  adjusting  his 
spectacles.  Quick  glances  from  his  friends  to  the 
paper  and  from  the  paper  back  to  his  friends,  light 
and  shade  alternating  in  his  e>es,  denoted  Robert 
Wi  hart's  confidence  in  the  one  and  hi^  suspicion  of 
l..^  other. 

"  There's  naethin'  to  dae  but  this.  I  suppose,"  he 
said  at  last,  "  and  that's  no'  difficult  to  dae.  I'll  dae 
it  noo,"  he  concluded  simply ;  and  with  a  final  and 
radiant  glance  around  the  attentive  circle,  he  tossed 
the  once  malignant  thing,  now  robbed  of  its  venomed 
tongue,  into  the  eager  fire,  which  wrought  its  quick 
revenge  upo  it,  swallowing  it  up  in  the  twinkling  of 
an  eye  and  cracklmg  merni>  as  though  it  knew  the 
completeness  of  its  triumph. 

Robert  resumed  his  chair,  Reuben  finding  a  place 
upon  the  arm  of  it,  his  glance  meeting  his  father's  in 
mute  rejoicing.  The  latter,  unaccustomed  to  the 
role  of  chairman,  nodded  towards  Mr.  Shearer; 
who  rose  to  his  feet,  extending  his  hand  as  he 
did  so. 

"  Mr.  Wishart,  we  rejoice  with  you  to-night,"  said 
the  minister ;  "  we  congratulate  you  on  this  reward 
of  your  faithful  labours.     But  you  have  won  more 


% 


li  1 


32 


THE    UNDERTOIV 


is« 


rejoices  „  i,l,  vo  ,  L      "7''\°""'  "'  '^eo-  man  who 

May  >-o..  fith::"  G'frcti^i'  *=  "™->-*- 

dear  wife,  and  all  who  are  sTdenr  to  v  '■°''  ?'  >"""• 

buMhei:;::,  ::e:e  ^a:r  '°"°r '-  "■™'^-  ^ 

for  public  speaking  Jasncurf  "  "^^  "™  "''■■"''>■• 
th«c    stalwart    tollerT    tV  "  ™«"""">"g 

hearty  proffer  of  h,,        ?^  '^   eoneluded   with   the 

for  this  cx-erciscbv  ,h         ■'°""''^""='""^""=<!"'PPed 
A,  eaci,  m  ^  "*=  P™''«  of  a  native  -ift 

smoke  were  find    ;"    .'°T  .""^  "P'"'>'=   """of 
^.^^  finding  agam  the,r  outlet  to  the  ocean 

Jean's  keen  instinct  scenf-pri  fi,^ 

--'H:rtrr°{d'" 

a-e.e„S:Jd"::ri--^ 

TelferT:d*„nold'''  f ""  f  ™^'"  "'=^  ^"''-v 
■  ■  Kobert  wit;  1,„'d!."".f'?  ••"°«-  "A  >oast 
^  drink  heartw  r  ,,  "  "'*•  '  '"^  '  ^"^  '  Wd  ye 
them  ba  1  T  'iLf^:'."  T'*  -<'  -""X  years  to 
enough  for  onybod,  ■  •  """'    *'">-  "^'"^  '=    ^-d 

of«:s-;f;i*f:;'r;h™^'"''"'=''''''=^-''- 

-eptedtheclinge^!— --- 


The  LAST  of  -The  MORTGAGE      ^^ 

to  their  feet  at  the  word,  and  draining  their  glasses 
with  equal  goodwill  to  their  hosts  and  satisfaction  to 
themselves. 

"Gie  us  a  song.  I.cic  S  uli^n-gie  us  ■  lionny 
Doon,  called  one  n  the  sr.iur.s,  whose  great- 
grandfather had  druik  many  a  toast  with  liurns 
himself,  unconscious  lu.  h..  boon  companion  was 
one  of  the  Immortals.  "  Gie  us  '  Bonny  Doon  '  " 
he  cried  again.  ' 

"This  is  no  time  for  ony  song  but  yin."  responded 
Jock;  '.  I  m  th.nkin'  o'  the  loggin',  and  the  plowin'. 
and  the  reapin',_the  cold  and  the  heat  we've  stood 
thegither  wi'  these  true  frecns  o'  ours.  I  canna  for- 
get a'  the  joj-s  and  the  soiiows  o'  tiie  years  that's 
ahint  us.  And  there's  only  ae  song  that's  fittin'- 
and  It's  aye  fittin'  for  a  time  like  this.  Where's  yir 
fiddle,  Reuben  ?  "  ^ 

Jean  knew  well  its  resting-place;  and  almost  as 
Jock  uttered  his  request  she  was  on  her  knees  before 
the  old  settee.  Drawing  it  forth,  she  handed  it  to 
Keuben,  who  needed  no  urging  to  his  task.  "  What'll 
It  be  Jock?  "he  said,  as  he  imprisoned  it  beneath 
his  chin. 

"  Dinna  be  puttin'  on  ony  airs,  Reuben.  Ye  ken 
fine,  Rube !  What  wad  we  sing  the  nicht,  forbyc  the 
song  I  m  thinkin'  o'  ?  " 

Reuben  smiled,  drew  his  bow  across  the  strings 
sounded  the  undying  strain,  and  cver>.  ploughman's 
heart  heard  again  the  voice  of  the  mightiest  of  their 
craft.  Mus'.c  was  wedded  now  to  love,  which  alone 
reveals    the    former    as    a    queen    and   brings   her 


iv^- 


34 


THE   UNDERTOiv 


into  her  stately  kingdom.     Stern  lips  took 
— ^^  gently  caressing  them  while  they  sang 


words 
face  gl 


up  the 
every 


fell 


Jlowing  with  tender  .ii„,.      ine  hre-gleam 
as  had    ghtened  their  days  of  darkness  and  now  en 

feet  kept  time  lightly  on  ^'^    oaken  fl  .^        .V    ^     ^ 
lin«c  ^  !=./<-"«         ^auen  floor  as  the  preaf 

lines  came  :n  unison  from  t.  Jr  lips  :  ^ 

"  We  twa  hae  paidl't  i'  the  burn 
frae  mornin'  sun  till  dine," 

soft   glances   interflowing  from  eves  fh;,f  , 
used  to  moistness.     Robert  Wislfar'^T  "°' 

turned  from  his  wife -K  ^^f^^'^^  glance  never 

other  butT<=  r    '^^"''"2  ^^'^^■'''"'^  hers  saw  no 

them  'Itt IT";  '"  '"  ''^"•^  ^^-SSle  had  afforded 

"  Dinna   tak   ym   anither's  hands  till  the  .econH 

antidpa[°,yr  cl  n  a x^  ^'t  ^'^"''"^  '^'^"^^  ^-- 
heart  °^  *^''  ^reat  carol  of  the 

"Sogie-sahand.myfrustyfreen 
And  here's  a  hand  o'  mine," 

>vh.rea.  hard  hands  and  tender  hearts,  both  ahlce 


The  LAs-T  of  The  MORTGAGE      35 
mellowed  by  the  rich  summer  of  a  hfe-long  toil,  went 
forth  to  .eet  and  to  dmg  to  hands  and  hearts" 
tender  as  their  own. 

Dunng  much  of  the  evening,  Stephen  had  stood 

tnt\T  T.  "u  '^'"'"^  '^^  ^hare  of  the  almost 
unshadowed  glow  that  wreathed  the  happy  farmhouse 
n  Its  ge>,.al  hght.  Most  of  the  company  had  been 
the  fnends  of  his  early  youth;  but.  whether  due  to 
the.r  shyness  toward  the  young  student,  or  to  the 
embarrassment  that  even  brief  absence  will  sometimes 
bnng  to  sensitive  natures,  he  had  stood  all  the  evening 
on  the  shore,  watching  the  flow  of  happy  hearts 
rather  than  mingling  with  its  joyous  tide 

His  mother's  watchful  eye  had  been  the  first  to 
note  the  jarnng  circumstance,  but  no  word  passed  her 
hps.  nor  any  glance  of  eye  marked  her  disquietude. 
When,  however,  the  happy  circle  had  framed  itself  in 
obed.ence  to  Jock's  cheery  summons,  and  Stephen 
was  not  within  it,  -.Id  forbear  no  longer 

"  .^^'"^  ^^^^'-  »">•  /'  she  called  genti  •  -  come 

awa^wi'theithe..     .et's  lilt  Auld  ling  S^n^r 

Stephen  arose,  compelling  a  responsive  smile,  and 

shX,"?'  'V''"  ""''"^  ■■'"«•  "'^  -°^her  moved 
slightly  to  make  room  for  him  beside  her,  but  Stephen 
either  saw  her  not.  or  pretended  that  he  did  not  see  • 
and  passed  quickly  to  the  side  of  another  member  of 
the  group.  This  other  was  a  girl  of  about  nineteen 
years  of  age,  who  turned  and  locked  at  Stephen  as  if 
much  surprised  when  he  chose  his  place  beside  her. 
But  the  glowing  cheek  seemed  to  indicate  that  =ur- 


1M^'^.^ 


^ 


HE    UNDERTOIV 


?J^3S 


prise  was  not  altogether  unmingled  with  emotion, 
and  the  kindling  eye  confirmed  the  thought  in  at 
least  one  heart  of  those  about  her. 

Tall  and  sinewy,  endowed  with  that  peculiar  out- 
ward grace  which  culture   r  nnct   simulate,  Bessie 
Burnett  might  well  have  caiied  to  herself  the  worth- 
iest hands  in  any  circle  that  wreathed  itself  for  song 
oentle  tides  of  health  found  their  pathway  in  her 
cheek,  sweet  and   fair  u.th  the  health-giving  flow; 
her  fair  hair  hung  in  artless  tresses  about  her  brow,  or 
fell  m  untrained  beauty  upon  white  throat  and  bosom 
exposed  in  girlish  innocence.     Beauty,  rather  than 
character,  marked  her  face. 

It  was  beside  this  winsome  maiden  that  Stephen 
chose  his  place.  He  had  not  been  careful  to  remark 
whose  place  he  had  supplanted,  or  whom  it  was  he 
had  almost  pushed  aside  by  his  impulsive  choice;  and 
it  was  only  when  the  ingers  began  to  profifer  mutual 
hands  that  he  turned  to  see.  And  behold  !  the  face 
that  met  his  own  was  his  brother  Reuben's,  paler  now 
than  Stephen  had  ever  seen  it  before;  and  the  eyes 
had  in  them  a  strange  admixture  of  challenge  and 
appeal  as  they  fell  on  Stephen's  ardent  gaze. 

"  So  gie's  a  hand  my  trusty  freen 
And  here's  a  hand  o'  mine." 

Thus  rolled  the  song  from  every  honest  heart,  and 
It  was  swelled  by  Stephens  robust  voice,  by  Bessie's 
tremblmg  lips,  by  Reuben's  faltering  note.  Into 
Stephen's  strong  hand  stole  Bessie's  fluttering  palm, 
while  Reuben's,  expectant  of  a  different  trust,  hung 


^m^  K 


The  LAST  of  The  MORTGAGE 


37 


limp  and  cold  within  his  brother's.  Stephen  vainly 
sought,  by  cordial  pressure,  to  prompt  it  to  a  warmer 
grasp — for  a  temporary  victory  affords  the  victor 
temporary  grace. 


i 


i  ;    _-^ 

:  ;      'Jt- 

f     .     ■" 

t      .  .i=- 

^i^l 

'fc^rr 


:^\  ^.  s^'i^^ 


J5?r; 


ni 

HIRAM    STIRS    The    POOL 

THE  next  morning  Stephen  was  early  astir. 
^o  one  was  about,  evidently  no  one  up,  as 
he  went  down-stairs  and  wended  his  ^^•ay 
outward  to  the  barn,  the  scene  alike  of  work   and 
play  m  the  days  he  rejoiced  to  think  were  now  be- 
hind forever.     He  stroked  the  faces  of  the  soft-eyed 
holies  outstretched  to  him  above  their  mangers,  the 
faithful  brutes  recognizing  no  necessity  for  change. 
They  sounded  their  breakfast  call  as  they  had  been 
wont  to  do.  and  Stephen  passed  on  to  the  bin.  return- 
ing amid  the  din  of  stamping  feet  and  hungrv  whin- 
nying, to  pour  their  oats  before  them.     Hc'was  re- 
warded by  that  ever  comfortable  sound  of  horses 
amid-meal,  munching  in  manifest  delight. 

Then  he  turned  his  steps  tov.ard  the  mow,  stiU 
snugly  filled  with  hay ;  and  memory  brought  before 
him  many  a  scene  of  romping  merriment  and  many 
a  theatre   of  skill  and  daring  in  the  days  that  were 
now  gone  by.     Yonder  had  they  leaped  from  the 
topmost  rafter  into  the  billowy  straw,  feigning  the 
heroic  plunge  from  deck  to  ocean— there  had  swung 
and  swayed  the  swing,  of  blessed  memory ;  higher 
still,  from  beam  to  beam,  they  had  laid  the  slender 
pole  which  only  the  daring  would  undertake  to  walk, 
and  they  only  when  inspired  by  awestruck  eyes  and 

3^ 


HIRAM   STIRS    7 he    POOL  39 

bated  breath  of  gentle  forms,  chief  among  which  he 
recalled  one  whose  golden  tresses  they  were  wont  to 
deck  with  crown  of  fragrant  clover. 

Whereat  the  stream  of  memor>-  flowed  down,  down 
and  back  till  it  pausi  J  at  the  very  night  before,  the 
night  on  which  this  morn  had  risen.  He  shook  him- 
self from  the  tangled  meshes  of  his  dream  as  a  swi-n- 
mer  strives  to  hurl  the  seaweed  from  his  arms.  Upon 
the  scene  that  prompted  it  he  turned  his  back,  walk- 
ing slowly  out  to  the  barnyard. 

"  Good-morning,  Stephen— you  are  out  early— I 
reckon  study  isn't  good  for  sleeping." 

He  turned  quickly  and  encountered  an  engaging 
face,  that  of  a  man  about  his  own  age.  Hiram 
Barker  had  come  a  youth  from  F:ngland  and  had  at- 
tached himself  to  the  place  some  years  before,  indif- 
ferent to  wage,  asking  only  to  learn  the  farmer's  art. 
Vague  rumours  were  afloat  concerning  his  superior 
connections  in  the  old  world,  though  these  had  never 
been  substantiated.  His  manners  were  worthy  of  the 
highest  station,  marked  by  every  evidence  of  refine- 
ment; and  his  mental  habits  were  as  vigorous,  and 
their  outcome  as  fruitful,  almost,  as  Stephen's  own. 

"  Good-morning,  Hiram,"  answered  Stephen,  the 
vision  of  the  man's  tranquil  countenance  evidently 
affording  him  as  little  pleasure  as  the  sound  of  his 
suggestive  voice.  "It's  a  fine  morning,"  he  con- 
tinued ;  "  I've  fed  the  horses  their  grain." 

"  Much  obliged  to  you,  Stephen— seems  like  old 
times,"  the  man  rejoined  familiarly,  "  not  every  horse 
gets  its  feed  from  a  preacher's  hand." 


40 


•THE    UNDERTOiV 


Stephen  flushed  with  irritation  as  ho  noticed  the 
derisive  tone  and  cauj^ht  the  gibe  so  noticeable  in  the 
words.     He  started  onward  to  the  house. 

But  Hiram  had  no  intention  that  the  interview 
should  end  so  abruptly. 

"  Don't  be  in  such  a  hurry,  Steve ;  can't  you  wait 
a  -linute  for  old  sake's  sake?  I'm  uncommon  proud 
oi  aiy  old  chum.  It  did  me  good  to  see  you  last 
night,  a  college  bred  man  like  you,  among  all  those 
hayseeds,  even  if  you  didn't  exactlv  join  in  with 
them." 

"  Don't  be  a  fool,  Hiram  ;  I  don't  understand  what 
you're  talking  about.  And  I'll  have  you  to  under- 
stand that  I  don't  want  my  parents  or  my  friends 
described  that  way,"  answered  Stephen,  disgust  with 
the  man,  and  fear  of  him,  both  mingling  in  his 
voice. 

"  l^on't  be  so  crusty,  Steve.  I  meant  no  harm  ;  but 
I  couldn't  help  feeling  last  night  that  my  old  friend 
had  outgrown  me,  swum  away  on  ahead,  you  under- 
stand.  You  used  to  be  the  life  of  every  company 
like  that  we  had  last  night.  But  you  seemed  so 
changed  and  distant  that  I  couldn't  help  feeling  my 
oIq  chum  wasn't  there  at  all.  I  changed  my  mind, 
however— it  was  something  you  did  yourself  that 
changed  it."     And  Hiram  smiled  right  knowingly. 

"  What  was  that  ? "  Stephen  asked  quickly, 
prompted  by  an  impulsive  curiosity.  "  I  didn't  do 
anything  specially  remarkable  that  I  know  of." 

•'  Nothing  very  remarkable,  Stephen,  as  you  say— ^ 
but  it  gave  you  back  to  me  again.     It  was  when  you 


HIRAS4   STIRS    -The   POOL 


4« 


broke  in  between  Rube  and  Bessie.  By  jove,  didn't 
she  look  stunning  last  night  ?  And  you  made 
straight  for  her,  Steve — oh,  yes,  you  made  straight 
for  her — and  the  old  light  was  in  your  eye,  and  I 
said  to  myself: — '  That'?  my  old  Steve  back  again, 
preacher  or  no  preacher,  that's  my  old  Steve  sure 
enough.'  You  always  hau  an  eye  lor  the  fair  ones, 
Stephen,  and  the  pulpit  isn't  going  to  put  it  out,  I'm 
afraid."  And  Hiram  lau.jhed  aloud  till  the  fowl  in 
the  barnyard  echoed  back  the  strain. 

Stephen's  face  was  crimson  with  shame  and  anger. 
"  Your  msults  are  lost  on  me,"  he  retorted  hotly. 
"  Nobody  but  a  fool  could  understand  you,  for  you 
talk  the  language  of  a  fool.  What  has  anything  yoa 
saw  last  night  got  to  do  with  you,  or  the  light  in  my 
eye,  or  any  of  my  past  that  you  know  anything 
about  ? "  he  cried,  conscious  of  the  medley  of  his 
words,  yet  avoiding  a  directer  question. 

The  laughter  vanished  from  the  face  of  his  tor- 
mentor as  he  turned  his  eyes  upon  Stephen,  and 
serious  disdain  could  be  seen  within  them. 

"  Don't  try  any  heroics  on  with  me,"  he  said  at 
length,  m  lower  tones  than  either  of  them  had  used 
before;  "there's  no  reasi  i  why  you  and  I  should 
quarrel.  All  I  want  is  that  we  should  understand 
each  other.  I  don't  forget  so  easily,  Steve  W'ishart. 
You  know  what  I  mean — you've  done  meaner  for  me 
than  you  ever  did  for  Rube !  You  remember  Li — 
but  I  needn't  mention  names.  You  are  no  more 
likely  to  forget  than  I  am.  That  was  before  you  were 
'  called,'  as  you  say,  to  the  ministry." 


""♦••--"  iXkT'  ♦  s^&if^k*; 


A2 


THE  UNDERTOU^ 


I 


"  You  may  taunt  me  as  you  please,"  answered  the 
unhappy  Stephen,  ••  and  I  don't  make  out  everything 
I  did  to  be  ri|,'ht.  But  remember  one  thing,  Hiram, 
it  was  you  who  first  taught  me  the  ways  of  sin— you 
taught  me  to  take  sin  by  the  hand,  and  God  knows 
the  whole  warfare  of  m>-  life  is  to  put  out  the  fire  fhat 
no  one  kindled  but  yourself." 

"  Yes,"  broke  in  the  other  passionately,  not  wait- 
ing for  his  companion  to  conclude.  "  I  taught  you, 
I  know,  as  I  was  taught  by  others  ;  and  I  have  had  my 
punishment.     You  know  how  I  loved  her— and  never 

loved  anybody  else Yes,  I've  been  punished, 

as  I  said.  The  Bible  that  you're  going  to  preach 
says  :— '  Your  sin  will  find  you  out,'  and  you  have  my 
permission  to  say  it's  true.  I'll  help  you  preach  that 
much,  Steve.  If  any  of  your  hearer^  doubt  it,  refer 
them  to  Hiram  B; :  \  r,  Rosehill  Farm— he  knows  it's 
true— he'll  give  them  chapter  and  verse  for  it  all 
right." 

"  There's  something  truer  still  than  that,  Hiram— 
the  grace  of  God  can " 

"  Bah  !  "  broke  in  the  other  derisively,  '<  don't  try 
your  preaching  on  with  me,  Steve.  What  do  you 
know  about  the  grace  of  God  ?  You  go  to  your 
preaching  and  I'll  go  to  my  ploughing  ;  but  don't  let 
either  of  us  talk  about  that  kind  of  thing— at  least 
not  to  each  other.  But  you'll  need  it  yet,  Steve, 
you'll  need  it— and  who  knows  but  you'll  get  it  too  ? 
Who  knows  ?  "  he  repeated  almost  musingly. 

Suddenly  he  fixed   his   eyes   again  on  Stephen's 
face. 


ML 


■Cfeak'^^anBesfflHsnE 


^i^^'Mmsum. 


HIRAM   STIRS    The    POOL  4> 

"  Steve,  you  know  I've  got  no  love  for  you,  don't 
you?  And  you  know  I've  got  good  cause  to  hate 
you,  don't  you?"  pursued  the  man,  the  dark  shade  of 
anger  clouding  his  face  again. 

"  I  don't  acknowledge " 

"  All  right,  never  mind  about  acknowledging.  As 
long  as  you  have  your  memory,  I  can  afford  to  care 
nothing  for  your  acknowledgments.  Hut  now  I'm 
coming  to  the  point.     Do  you  know  what  my  worst 

wish  for  you   is,  Steve ?     It's  a  cruel,  savage 

wish — the   devil   couldn't   wish   you   worse.     Guess 
what  It  is." 

Stephen  gazed  wonderingly,  fearfully,  at  the  face 
that  peered  into  his  own,  and  his  tongue  seemed  to 
refuse  to  speak.  For  even  the  humblest  enemy  is 
mighty  when  the  Past  is  in  his  hand. 

"  You  would  never  guess,  Steve,  what  I'm  going  to 
wish  you.  You  wouldn't  think  I'm  religious  enough 
to  wish  you  this— but  I'm  more  religious  than  you 
think  for.  And  if  I  get  my  wish— which  I  think  I 
w."  ^.'11  get  my  revenge  all  right ;  I  mean,  you  will 
suiici  enough  to  satisfy  all  the  enemies  you  ever 
had." 

"  Let  me  pass,"  broke  out  his  listener,  extending 
his  arm  as  if  to  brush  Hiram  aside. 

"All  right,  Steve,  you  may  pass— on  you  go. 
And  my  wish  for  you  is  this,  that  you'll  go  on  into  the 
ministry,  without  the  grace  of  God.  Understand, 
Wishart  ?  You're  to  go  on  into  the  ministry — with- 
out the  grace  of  God.  That's  my  wish— cruel 
enough,  I'll  admit,  but  that's  my  wish  for  you.     A 


i.*, tik 


AA 


THE    UNDERTOIV 


tf'S/,!: 


I-  "■>' 


pieachcr  without  his  papers — secret  papers,  you 
know.  Go  on,  Steve,  run  your  mill  by  hand — no 
steam,  no  water,  nothing  but  your  own  hands ;  and 
make  folks  believe  you'vt  got  a  different  power. 
That's  my  wish  for  you,  Wishart,  and  even  God  Al- 
mighty can't  disappoint  me  unless  He  does  a  heap  of 
surgery  on  \  ou ;  and  either  one'll  suit  me  all  right. 
Good-morning  to  you.  Good-morning  to  you, 
Reverend  Stephen  Wishart,  minister  of  the  Gospel 
of  the  grace  of  God." 

liiram  bowed  low,  raising  his  hat,  then  picked  up 
the  pail  he  had  been  ca/rying  and  went  on  his  wiiy, 
the  sinister  e>es  flashing  as  he  went. 

Stephen  answered  not  a  word,  but  hurried  torward 
to  the  house.     He  encountered  his  mother  at  the  door. 

"  Guid-mornin',  laddie.  It's  a  briclitsome  day. 
Ye  rested  vveel,  1  hope.  Come  ben  to  your  break- 
fast. I  was  juist  gaein'  to  ca'  ye.  The  parritch  is 
lifted  and  yir  faither's  waitin',"said  the  faithful  woman, 
looking  proudly  on  the  son  whose  gifts  :id  promise 
were  her  greatest  joy. 

"  Tha'.ik  you,  mother,  but  don't  wait  breakfast  for 
me.  I  slept  poorly  last  night — too  much  of  your 
good  cooking,  I'm  afraid,"  and  Stephen  commanded 
a  faint  smile  as  he  spoke,  "  so  I  think  I'll  see  if  I  can't 
rest  a  little — I'm  not  feeling  extra  well." 

"  Puir  laddie,"  responded  his  mother,  "  it's  ower 
hard  studyin'  wi'  the  books  that's  no'  guid  for  ye,  but 
tak  ye  a  wee  bit  rest  and  ye'll  mebbe  feel  niair  like 
yir  breakfast  after  that.  Let  doon  the  blinds  and 
ye'll  rest  the  better." 


i'i 


HIKAM    STIRS    The    POOL 

Stcjihcn  did  let  down  the  blinds,  and  on  the  softest 
of  piiious   he   laid  his  weary  head.     But  there  are 
blinds  invisible  which  we  cannot  draw  at  will,  antl  the 
unshielded  soul  that  craves  them,  conscious  of  other 
lar<;er   eyes    than    ours   that  search   it  through  and 
through,  looks  and  lon;;s  in  vain  lor  the  shelter  that 
is  denied.     Such  a  soul  was  Stephen  Wishart's,  vainly 
searching;  for  its  cover  and  finding  no  pillow  worthy 
of  Its  weariness.     The   past,   with    its    every  turgid 
tide,  its   every  muddy  tributary,  surged  about  him 
where  he  lay  ;  and  the  voice  of  Hiram  Barker  echoed 
in   his  '^oul  like  the  voice   of  doom.     And  now  he 
lives  over  again  the  hour  of  defeat  which  Hiram's 
words  recalled.     Deep  and  sincere  was  the  penitence 
he  felt,  earnest  and  true  his  desire  to  redeem  his  sin 
by  a  life  of  devoted  service  ;  and  plaintive  indeed 
was  his  secret  cry  for  a  regenerated  heart  that  might 
justify  the  life-work  he  had  dared  to  choose. 

He  was  still  pondering  the  past,  now  sallying  into 
the  days  that  were  gone,  now  fluttering  fearfully  for- 
ward toward  their  darker  descendants  yet  to  come, 
when  a  sound  from  the  kitchen  below  attracted  his 
attention.  It  was  a  note  of  music,  roughly  but  ac- 
curately uttered  by  his  father's  voice,  evidently  in 
quest  of  a  tune.  Stephen  understood  at  once — they 
were  beginning  family  worship,  always  opensd  with  a 
psalm.  He  had  often  found  it  wearisome  enough, 
but  it  seemed  strangely  interesting  now — and  wel- 
come too — for  it  had  the  subtle  charm  of  reality  about 
it,  like  his  mother's  substantial  fare,  compared  with 
the  confectioneries  of  nimbler  hands. 


46 


T/y"    UNDERTO^y 


He  partly  rose,  leaning  his  head  on  his  hand,  and 
listening  intently.  Once  or  twice  his  father  cleared 
his  throat,  pursuing  the  note  again;  then  a  slight 
murmur  of  satisfaction  with  his  search  and  the  psalm 
began.  Up  into  his  room  floated  the  stately  words, 
his  father's  voice  clearly  in  the  lead,  followed  by  his' 
mother's  quavering  tones,  Reuben  joining  with  a  rich 
and  mellow  bass  : 

"  Behold  Thou  in  the  inward  parts 

With  truth  delighted  art 
And  wisdom  Thou  shalt  make  me  know 

Within  the  hidden  part." 

Stephen's  soul  went  down  before  the  mighty  num- 
bers ;  his  spirit  seemed  caught  into  the  current  of  the 
noble  prayer  and  he  tried  to  join  the  singing.  But 
his  voice  was  choked  in  tears.  The  vision  of  the 
great  lives  beneath  him,  whose  shoe-latchets  he  knew 
himself  unworthy  to  unloose— their  simple  faith,  their 
unstained  purity,  their  loyalty  to  God— and  the 
mingling  vision  of  his  own  warring  heart,  his  treach- 
erous will,  'lis  tarnished  life,  lent  to  the  words  a  power 
and  to  the  prayer  a  beauty  that  melted  his  soul  within 
him. 

Still  listening,  he  could  catch  the  murmur  of  wor  s, 
but  too  low  to  be  heard  distinctly— evidently  the 
reading  from  the  Book.  A  few  minutes  more,  and  a 
shuffling  of  chairs,  followed  by  deep  quietness,  be- 
tokened that  they  had  sought  the  Presence  whose 
"cahty  btephen  knew  was  the  power  of  his  parents' 
hves.  Only  two  phrases  did  he  hear.  Once  he  caught 
the  words  :    «  Help  us  to  live  true  lives  before  Thee 


wmmmmfm^. 


HIRAM   STIRS   The   POOL 


47 


this  day  " — and  the  contrite  heart  coveted  the  answer 
for  its  own.  Again  he  heard :  "  Give  him  a  great 
secret  for  his  great  work,"  and  the  listening  son  knew 
well  for  whom  his  father  prayed. 

He  rose  from  the  bed,  his  whole  soul  bathed  in 
purpose.  Kneeling  low,  he  poured  out  his  heart  in 
penitence,  while  resolve  and  entreaty  mingled  in  pas- 
sionate petition. 

"  Oh,  God,  save  me  from  the  past,"  he  cried.  "  I 
was  young — and  I  was  caught  into  the  torrent  before 
I  knew  its  danger.  Oh,  God,  give  me  a  clean  heart 
and  make  me  hate  sin — make  me  hate  sin,  oh,  my 
Father,"  he  repeated,  "  and  let  me  love  Thy  will — 
and  Thy  work."  Then,  one  by  one,  he  sought  to 
bring  the  sins  of  his  youth  forward  for  forgiveness  ; 
but  his  mind  threatened  to  linger  on  them  and  the 
stain  menaced  his  heart  anew.  He  forbore,  con- 
cluding with  a  repetition  of  his  former  cry,  struggling 
back  to  the  shore  like  one  whose  garments  are  wet 
with  the  torrent's  spray. 

Still  struggling,  he  walked  to  the  open  window  and 
looked  out.  The  morning  sun,  far  on  its  calm  jour- 
ney now,  was  shriving  all  it  touched  with  holy  light. 
The  tranquil  purity  of  all  around  him  seemed  to 
soothe  the  tumult  in  Stephen's  soul,  speaking  to  him 
with  its  silent  voice.  New  life  was  manifest  in  herb 
and  flower  and  leaf,  bud  and  blossom  faintly  heralding 
the  regeneration  of  the  year.  Recovery  and  whole- 
ness and  triumph  seemed  about  him  on  every  hand — 
and  the  instinct  of  life  seemed  to  throb  with  victory, 
numbness  and  decay  retreating  with  ever-hastening 


I'-f 


<    i' 


48 


THE    UhlDERTOw 


"  i  cant  wait,  Reuben,"  he  heirH  o  f      •,• 
sav     '<  I  nni„  "^  ^  familiar  vo  ce 

Fathers  slK-a,i„/,,e' hi  .         "lust  hurry  back. 

■ne.  It.  churnrngX  f  -^  "  '"°"'"'"  '=  """'"^ 
answtT  ."h1  *:  ^"""'"S'  «--/■  Reuben 
Wm  .0  drop  ?„  a"d  ?°'"^  '°  ""'  P°»'  ""^  '  """ 
anything  she  ,^  at    f.'  '■■""  """""■  ="   "^"d   " 

rteu^-'"-- '-rrrrh^it 

Knew  their  words  were  nnt  f«^  ;,■      l        , 

followed  him-onlJ,  fe  j        '  """  ""^   *■■"■* 

catch  h„f  .u  '^  ■■''°''°'"  '■"g'tives  did  he 

wTth";  hil,  *'"  ''"^  ^"°"«'' '°  "-'^^  "is  conscence 
faf'hJranH  'T,"    ''°"    «°   ="">'•    R™'"^"?       Vour 

ri^ri^^yr'''-^^''-"*'"^--^'--' 

-L..fr:^:,,I-2be*.;4ess,e  cried   ,„ 
"le?     No,  I  didn't  snw  T'^  ^  ^     '^''■''*>'  ^°'' 

-'--.ahou.th-a.'Tou'ct.XJer.tZ';- 


jX,<  <fJLJIiaK9DPI^.7^^it-Uk 


HIRAM   STIRS    The    POOL  49 

self— I  guess    you    know.     But   what   would   your 
going  away  have  to  do  with  me  ?  " 

"  You  know  well  enough,  Bessie— why  should  j-ou 
ask  me  to  tell  you  ?  You  know  I'm  only  a  rough 
uneducated  farmer,  nothing  but  a  clodhopper  and 
not  likely  to  be  anything  better— while  I  stay  here. 
AnJ  I  can  see  you  aren't  satisfied.  Here  I  am  with 
no  prospects  but  a  farm— and  it  not  free  from  debt 
till  lately;  and  no  money  amongst  us  except  that 
wmdfall  that  father  got  from  Scotland.  I  don't 
blame  you,  Bessie.  You  want  somebody  with  edu- 
cation, or  money,  or  both— somebody  with  fine  man- 
ners, who  has  seen  -omething  of  the  world,  some- 
body that  you  can  be  proud  of.  That's  the  kind  of 
man  you  want— or  ought  to  want." 

Bessie's  voice  trembled  as  she  answered :— "  I 
want  something  more  than  that,  Reuben— every  girl 
wants  more  than  that." 

"  What  is  it,  Bessie  ?  tell  me  what  is  it  ?  "  urged 
Reuben. 

Bessie's  answer  was  low,  so  low  that  Stephen  could 
not  hear,  but  the  last  words  were  plain  enough  :— "  A 
true  heart  that  will  never  change,  never,  never  at  all, 
but  get  truer  and  truer  the  longer  they  both  live— 
that's  what  every  girl  wants." 

"  I  know,  Bessie.  I  know  all  that— but  you  want 
something  more  besides.  Something  I  can  never 
get  or  give  you  here.  You  know  you  arc  beautiful, 
and  you  are  meant  for  lovely  things,  and  high 
society,  and  educated  people,  even  if  you  c'o  live  on 
a  farm  like  myself.      You  arc  meant   f.^r  somebody 


50 


THE   UNDERTOIV 


like  that— somebody  like  Stephen,"  he  concluded, 
and  his  voice  was  different,  faltering  as  he  spoke  the 
name. 

"  Stephen  wouldn't  think  of  me  "—the  girl's  voice 
was  trembling— "  we  used  to  be  such  friends— but 
I've  got  sense  enough  to  know  about  Stephen  now. 
You  remember  that  paper  he  sent  us  about  thac  re- 
ception—and the  description  of  all  the  fine  dresses 
and  things— you  remember  ?  " 

Reuben  did  remember,  for  his  soul  had  secretly 
exulted  over  it ;  but  he  noticed  the  look  of  longing 
pain  in  the  girl's  eyes  and  a  shadow  crept  across 
his  wn. 

"  Steve's  too  noble  a  fellow  to  be  influenced  by 
such  things  as  those,"  he  replied.  "  Steve's  almost  a 
minister  now,  and  he  loves  souls  for  their  own  sakes  ; 
the  rich  and  the  poor'll  all  be  alike  to  him.  I  don't 
think  worldly  attractions,  society  things,  I  mean, 
have  any  charm  for  Stephen." 

The  girl  did  not  fail  to  note  the  shade  upon  his 
face  and  it  lent  music  to  his  generous  words,  the  love 
he  bore  his  brother  struggling  to  hold  its  own  against 
the  great  supplanter. 

Divine  authority  there  was,  and  Reuben  knew  it, 
for  the  desertion  that  forsakes  a  brother  to  cleave  to 
that  same  supplanter— but  Reuben  would  cleave  yet 
a  while  to  both, 

Stephen  was  the  younger,  and  the  more  delicate. 
A  violent  sickness  in  early  boyhood  had  well-nigh 
borne  him  off;  after  he  was  convalescent,  he  had 
been   much   in  Reuben's  care;   and   the   latter  had 


HIRAM  STIRS   The   POOL 


5« 


shielded  him  by  day,  and  had  wakened  all  through 
the  wintry  nights  to  assure  himself  that  the  little  in- 
valid was  covered  up  and  warm.  Thus  the  protection 
of  his  brother  had  become  the  habit  of  his  life  and 
almost  the  deepest  passion  of  his  heart. 

"  What  is  Stephen  going  to  do  now,  Reuben  ?  " 
Bessie  asked.     "  Has  he  got  a  call  to  a  kirk  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know,  Bessie — he  hasn't  told  me.  But 
he  wants  to  study  in  Scotland  ;  I  know  he  asked 
father  for  t^.c  money,"  answered  Stephen's  brother. 

Then  Reuben's  voice  dropped  lower  and  Stephen 
could  hear  but  little  of  what  he  said.  What 
he  did  hear,  however,  was  enough  to  let  him  know 
that  he  was  no  longer  the  subject  of  his  brother's 
pleading.  The  poor  hungry  heart  was  speaking  for 
itself  now.     He  was  speaking  louder  than  before. 

"  I  can  never  hope  to  be  clever  like  him,  but  happi- 
ness isn't  in  being  clever,  Bessie  ;  it's  in  being  happy 
— and  that's  an  entirely  different  thing.  Won't  you 
bid  me  go,  Bessie?  And  won't  you  promise  to 
write  to  me,  and  cheer  me  on,  and  wait  for  me — and 
let  me  feel  all  through  the  fight  that  your  heart  is 
helping  me  to  try  and  be  worthy  of  you  ?  I'll  try 
so  hard — and  I  know  I  can  succeed." 

"  But  Reuben,  if  you  could  be  happy  anywhere — 
if  both  of  us  could  be  happy  anywhere,"  and  the 
blush  of  ardent  innocence  gave  beauty  to  the  words, 
"  there's  no  better  place  than  just  here  where  every- 
body else  seems  to  be  happy  too.  Everything  is 
pure  and  lovely  here — but  don't  ask  me,  Reuben — 
don't  urge  mc  so.     I  admire  you  so,  Reuben — no- 


P:l 


■fW* 


53 


THE    UNDERTOIV 


body  in  the  whole  world  admires  you  hkc  I  do  I 
think  you  arc  so  good  ;  everybody  docs-and  father 
says  you  could  be  an  elder." 

"  I  don't  want  to  be  an  elder."  the  other  broke  in 
abrupt  y.  ••  and  I  don't  want  to  be  admired  ;  I  dont 
care  whether  anybody  admires  me  or  not.     1  want  to 

tremh  '  H  ?l''''  ""?"''  "-'"'  '^'  '''''^'^  ^^ove  then) 
trembled  hke  a  leaf  at  the  great  stillness  that  fol- 
lowed broken  by  no  voice  of  words,  but  only  by  the 
old.  old  rhetoric  of  passion's  movement,  that  semi- 
savage,  semi-heavenly,  music  of  a  man's  tender  over- 
powering and  woman's  surrendering  resistance. 

"Oh.  Reuben,   Reuben."  he  heard  at  last,  "you 
mustn  t_we  mustn't-some  one's  calling  me."  and 
m  a  moment  the  graceful  form  could  be  seen  hurry- 
ing across  the  sward.     But  Stephen  knew  from  their 
very  sound   that   those   lips   had  been  touched  by 
kmdred  coals  of  flame-and  his  own  were  parched 
and  white.     He  watched  the  girl's  lithe  frame  as  it 
retreated  m  the  distance,  the  golden  hair  tossed  in 
the  morning  wind;  and  he  saw,  too,  or  thought  he 
saw,    he  heaving  bosom  and  the  burning  cheek- 
but  all  vvere  beautiful,  marked  more  by  beauty  than 
by  strength,  he  knew.  ^ 

He  vvalked  across  the  room  and  threw  himself 
upon  the  bed;  in  a  moment  he  is  up  again  and 
pacing  the  floor.  ^     ^ 

He  strides  to  the  window  again  and  looks  at  the 
mornings  majestic  purity,  unnoticed  now.  A  man's 
form  IS  visible,  appearing  above  a  distant  hill  He 
gazes  at  ,t  a  minute  as  it  plods  heavily  on,  and  sees 


HIRAM   STIRS    The    POOL 


'•<3 


it  to  be  Hiram,  returning  from  his  errand.  Then 
doors  of  ebony  fly  open  wide,  and  ghostly  memories, 
black-robed,  rush  in,  the  very  memories  he  had  fore- 
sworn forever,  upon  his  knees  surrendering  them  to 
the  destructive  custody  of  God.  He  bids  them  be- 
gone—back, still  back  he  bids  them  go ;  and  all  are 
driven  forth  save  one,  one  only,  that  had  long  been 
the  favourite  of  his  heart.  It  lingers — and  soon  the 
door  is  open  wide  again,  and  all  the  banished  return 
rejoicing  to  the  room  that  hath  been  swept  and 
garnished — all  unresisted  now. 

Stephen  turns  from  the  window,  his  back  turned 
upon  the  light;  the  room  is  strangely  dark  after 
looking  at  the  meadows  and  the  sun ;  but  not  un- 
pleasantly so  to  his  ardent  eyes.  A  robin  is  voicing 
its  pure  note  from  a  tree  beside  the  window  as  Stephen 
turns  away ;  but  he  hears  it  only  for  an  instant,  dis- 
missing the  sweet  suggestion. 


r       fP 


i 


.>. :  ,fi-.:9-:  :iM 


IV 


The  OLD  SCHOOL  AND   The  NEIV 


I 


'VE  been  thinkin'  it  ower  to  mysel',  Stephen, 
and  I  talkit  to  yir  mither  aboot  it— an'  I  dinna 
ken  weel  juist  wliat  to  dae." 
It  was  Robert  VVi^   art's  voice;  and  he  was  seated 
again  m  the  familiar  kitchen  seat. 

Jean  was  over  at  the  Burnetts',  holding  high  con- 
ference upon  the  high  proceedings  of  the  social  gath- 
ering whose  story  has  been  already  told.  Reuben 
was  still  employed  with  the  varied  duties  of  the  byre 
through  whose  open  doors  came  the  sound  of  manj' 
a  bovine  vesper  song. 

"  I  don't  know  either,"  answered  Stephen.  "  May 
I  ask  a  plain  question,  father  ?  Have  you  any  money 
except  what  they  sent  you  from  the  old  country? 
Don  t  think  I'm  prying  into  your  affairs ;  but  when 
I  spoke  to  you  about  sending  me  abroad  to  study,  I 
thought  perhaps  you  had  a  little  laid  by  in  all  these 
years."  Stephen's  rather  embarrassed  face  was  turned 
towards  the  door  as  he  asked  the  question,  fearing 
mterruption.  ^ 

'•  Ye're  no'  interferin',  Stephen-no,  there's  nae- 
body  there;  Reuben's  attendin'  to  the  cattle  for  the 
nicht.  Ye're  no'  interferin',  as  I  said.  We'll  no' 
begin  now  to  hae  ony  secrets  among  us.  But  about 
the  money— I  hae  nae  mair,  forbye  a  pickle  that  I'll 
gie  to  Hiram  when  the  month  comes  round.    There's 

54 


^^^^BWB15»^2^^5SSS- 


'ihe  OLD  SCHOOL  AND  The  NEW        55 

no'  been  muckle  money  in  farmin'  these  late  years. 
I  mind  the  time  o'  the  war  in  Russia — wheat  was  gey 
high  then — twa  dollars  a  bushel  for  months  on  end, 
and  glad  to  get  it,  tae.  It's  but  three-quarters  o'  a 
dollar  now.  But  I'm  no'  complainin' — war's  a  wae- 
some  thing  to  mak  money  oot  o'." 

"  Didn't  you  lend  some  money  to  Archie  Gourlay, 
father  ?"  Stephen  asked  after  a  short  pause,  his  mind 
still  fixed  on  Edinburgh  and  all  possible  assets 
thereto  assisting. 

"  Aye,  I  loaned  him  a  wee  pickle — puir  Airchie, 
he  had  aye  the  manners  o'  a  Duke  when  he  was 
wantin'  siller.  I  mind  how  he  held  the  gate  open 
when  I  started  ben  the  hoose  to  get  it  for  him — but 
'twas  sair  different  when  I  wantit  it  back.  I  had  to 
open  a'  the  gates  mysel',"  and  Robert  Wishart  in- 
dulged himself  in  a  low  gurgle  of  laughter.  "  He 
was  ceevil  eneuch  for  a'  that ;  I  mind  he  told  me  he 
wadna  ask  the  note  afore  he  paid  the  money  on't," 
and  the  kindly  creditor  laughed  again. 

"  Did  he  ever  pay  you  ?  "  Stephen  asked. 

"  Na,  he  never  did — and  he  died  a  twalmonth  syne, 
as  ye  ken.  And  a  fortnicht  later  his  horse  was  killed 
wi'  lichtnin' — and  the  stirkie  was  droon'd — and  his 
puir  widow  bocht  a  lichtnin'  rod  frae  a  scoun'rel  that 
cam'  round — and  that's  waur  nor  buyin'  a  farm  itse. 
Sae  I  cudna  be  ower  hard ;  and  I  never  pressed  her 
mair.  The  body  seems  gratefu',  nae  doot ;  says  she 
aye  gies  me  her  vote  for  an  elder.  And  I  aye  cry 
back  it's  a  sair  pity  she  canna  gie  me  the  fitness, 
tae,"  and  the  old  farmer  smiled,  ending  with  a  sigh. 


56 


THE    UNDERTOIV 


"  Where  is  the  note  ?  "  Stephen  ventured. 
His  father  paused  a  moment  ;  then  nodding  his 
head  forward  he  replied : — "  It's  in  there." 

"  In  there  !  Where  ?  "  said  Stephen, "  in  the  Bible 
do  you  mean  ?  "  for  the  sacred  volume  was  often  the 
receptacle  of  cherished  manuscripts  ;  and  within  its 
hallowed  pages  was  many  a  Scotchman  wont  to  read 
his  title  clear. 

"  Na,  it's  no'  in  the  Buik.  I  never  mi.\  thae  things 
thegither.  Though  ma  faither  did— he  aye  kecpit 
his  marriage  lines  at  the  thirteenth  o"  First  Corin- 
thians, and  his  mithcr's  funeral  card  at  the  four- 
teenth o'  St.  John.  Guid  bits,  tae,  baith  o'  them," 
he  added,  his  mind  evidently  more  engrossed  with 
these  tender  thoughts  than  with  the  matter  in  hand. 

"  But  where  did  you  say  the  Gourlay  note  was  ?  " 
Stephen  renewed,  for  he  was  in  no  antiquarian  mood 
just  then. 

"  Oh,  the   note,"  said   his   father,  reclaiming  his 
thoughts  with  a  start, "  it's  in  there  where  I  tell't  ye." 
"  In  where  ?  "  pursued  the  son,  "  I  don't  see  any- 
where where  it  can  be ;  there's  nothing  there  but  the 
wall." 

"  It's  i'  the  fire,"  the  head  of  the  house  gravely 
averred.  "  It  oucht  to  be  there,  onyvvay.  That's 
where  I  saw  it  last—and  it's  the  place  for  a'  such 
things  wi'  neebours,to  my  way  o'  thinkin'— I'll  never 
hae  anither." 

Stephen  gazed  intei  V  into  the  fire,  his  mental  at- 
titude prompting  the  stare. 

"  Ye    canna    see't,"   tne    old   man    interposed,  a 


rrf^ 


«-a*t,-: 


.:r5>l" 


The  OLD  SCHOOL  AND  The  NEU^        S7 

solemn  smile  playing  about  his  lips.  •'  It's  i"  the 
fire,  nae  doot,  but  its  indiveeduality  is  gone,  ye  ken,' 
he  concluded,  undertaking  a  word  as  large  as  the 
generous  action  which  had  necessitated  it ;  "  but  the 
fire's  seemed  to  me  to  burn  brichter  ever  since, "  he 
added,  "  and  it'll  no'  dac  the  widow's  fire  eny  harm 
forbye." 

"  Oh,  I  see,"  Stephen  mused  abstractedly. 

"  Aye,"  responded  the  other,  "  that's  what  I  think 
mysel'."  Then  silence,  that  greatest  arbitrator,  took 
the  ill  matched  argument  into  her  keeping,  judgment 
to  be  reserved. 

Robert  Wishart  was  the  first  to  renew  the  conver- 
sation :— "  Mebbc  we'd  better  be  takin'  up  that  mait- 
ter  o'  business  again — ways  and  means  hae  their  ain 
place,  as  my  faither  used  to  say.  Aboot  yir  gaein'  to 
the  auld  country,  Stepher  — I  dinna  ken  weel  juist 
what  ye  oucht  to  dae,  as  I  was  sayin'.  I've  gied  ye 
a  guid  schulin',  and  pit  ye  through  for  the  ministry  ; 
and  I  was  hopin',  mebbc,  that  ye'd  sune  be  daein' 
for  yirsel'.  It's  ta'en  a  heap  o'  siller— not  that  I'm 
grudgin'  it,  Stephen,  far  frae  that— but  yir  mither's 
needin'  a  new  gown,  and  I'd  like  Reuben  to  hae  a 
bit  flung  or  twa— a  watch  mebbe ;  and  we're  needin' 
a  new  carriage  ;  and  I  was  thinkin'  o'  takin'  yir 
mither  for  a  wee  bit  holiday.  She's  far  frae  weel,  as 
ye  ken  yirsel'.  Her  heart's  ailin',  the  doctor  says, 
and  she  maun  hae  rest,  he  says  tae."  Brooding 
seriousness  sat  on  Robert  W^shart's  brow. 

Stephen's  face  paled,  and  he  poked  the  fire  medi- 
tatively.    "  I  understand,  father,  and  I  don't  want  to 


ntf^^i 


58 


7HR    U  V    )ERTOli' 


lot  to  give  my  ediica- 

t  lat  we've  gone  so  far. 

'    very  nev. — and  wry 

"Ji.  -rned,  at  least,  c^pe- 

'.      oesn't  get  the  latest 

'  Ger'.ianw      )!ut  I 

'  "  H         read  the 

Jill  burgh  they 

"lughly  modern, 

''  the  new  the- 


be  selfish — I  hope  I  m  i'  •:  selfish,"  he  continued 
gravely,  his  ga7.e  averte.  tr  .m  his  lather'  ,  so  stead- 
fastly set  upon  him  "  \  Ml"  certainly  been  kind  to 
me — but  it  does  seem  too  b' 
tion  the  finishing  t'^uc'  ,<< 
You  see,  father,  this 
raw — so  far  as  its  cult' 
cially  in  theology;  on.  re- i 
thought  in  theology  th. 
don't  think  of  Germa  a- 
German  books — and  I 
have  some  grand  the^  t:  ir 
up  to  date,  men,  who  arc  fami 
ology,  and  that  is  what  i  ;ciiuu  iie<;.U  for  the  min- 
istry in  these  da>s.  You  have  to  ktc-  abreast  of  the 
times  if  you  would  succeed." 

Stephen  would  have  continued,  but  his  father 
turned  and  looked  at  him,  wonder  in  lus  face. 

"  N\'iiat's  that  >  ir  savin',  Stephen  ?  What's  that 
yir  sayin'  ?  ■  the  latest  ihocht '— whaur  wad  a  min- 
ister o'  the  gospel  get  the  latest  thocht  if  it  isna  frae 
Almichty  God?  And  I'm  thinl  in'  He  mirht  be 
found  this  side  o'  German}-,  or  Edinburgh  either,  for 
that  maitter.  <  A  new  theology  !  a  new  thcoiogj- ! ' 
that  is  summat  new,  I'll  grant  >'e.  Some  o'  thae  new 
professors'll  be  wantin'  a  new  sun  i'  the  hea\ens somi ; 
and  the  yin's  as  reasonable  as  the  ither. 

"  Whatever  divye  mean,  my  laddie  ?  Tell  me,  noo, 
wad  ye  like  a  i-ew  mither  ?  Or  a  new  way  o' 
thinkin'  aboot  a  mither's  love?  Wad  ye,  laddie, 
wad   ye,  noo  ?     Dinna   shake   yir  heid   like  that— 


I 
I 


The  OLD  SCHOOL  AND  The  KEIV         S9 

they're  the  same  ;  and  ye  maun  learn  aboot  them  the 
sanie  way — by  the  heart,  je  ken. 

"  Ye  canna  learn  aboot  the  flo«'ers  that  blaw  beside 
the  burn,  oot  o'  a  buik.  Ve  canna,  ye  maun  learn 
them  \vi'  yir  heart  tac.  An  auld  country  and  a  new 
theology !  God  forbid  !  "  and  the  student's  father 
caressed  the  Book  that  lay  beside  him,  his  cheek 
glowing  >/ith  an  unwonted  colour,  and  hiseyjssome- 
wli  It  din-  as  they  rested  on  the  precious  volume  ;  for 
his  father  before  him  had  pillowed  there  his  weary 
heart  when  the  evening  shadows  fell. 

"  But  father,  listen  to  me  a  moment,"  cried  his  son, 
almost  overborne  as  he  was  by  the  elder's  vehemence  ; 
he  vas  dimly  conscious  of  the  great  power  that  so 
of! en  reposes  in  great  hearts  like  these,  breaking  at 
long  intervals  into  geyser  speech.  "  Listen  to  me  a 
moment,"  lie  said  again  ;  and  his  father  essayed  to  do 
so,  settling  nim -elf  resolutely  within  his  chair. 

"  It's  like  this,"  Stephen  went  on,  "  it's  like  this — 
new  theories  ci  >me  wilh  new  light ;  and  it's  our  duty 
to  welcome  truth,  come  from  what  quarter  it  may. 
Our  vievs  of  nvny  things  change  with  the  years, 
even  though  they  may  be  challenged.  You  remem- 
ber Copcrnic  IS  ?" 

"  Eh  ?  "  said  the  old  man,  suddenly.  "  Remember 
waa  ?" 

"  Copernicus,"  repeated  St-phen,  "  Copernicus  and 
the  sun,  you  know." 

"  I  canna  mind  on  him,'  said  the  father,  ransack- 
ing his  memory  in  vain — "  uut  I'm  no'  sae  guid  at 
mindin'  names  as  I  used  to  be.     And  of  course  I 


■  '.«,,,  .-miiiwa 


6o 


THE    UNDERTOW 


m 


wadna  ken  the  son  ;  a  man  at  my  age  isna  sae  ready 
at  takin'  up  \vi'  the  young  folk.  What  like  a  man 
was  he  ?     Did  they  gang  till  oor  kirk  ?  " 

"  Oh,  father,  you  misunderstand  me — I'm  speaking 
of  Copernicus,  a  famous  name  in  science — one  of  the 
ancients " 

"  Oh,"  broke  in  the  other,  "  it's  oot  o'  the  Bible  ye 
mean  ?  It'll  be  Capernaum  ye're  thinkin'  >  •'.  I  ken 
Capernaum  fine — was  readin'  aboot  it  this  vera 
mornin'.  That's  the  place  as  had  a  bonny  (  hance  wi' 
the  iMaister's  michty  works— but  thej-  didna  tak  them 
to  their  souls;  they  didna  hae  'the  latest  thocht'  or 
mebbe  they  got  it  when  it  was  too  late ; "  and  the 
venerable  disputant  smiled  genially  upon  his  son,  his 
lifted  eyebrows  betokening  the  conviction  that  he  had 
fairly  scored. 

"  No,  father,  of  course  I  don't  mean  Capernaum," 
said  Stephen,  a  shade  of  irritation  mingling  with  his 
smile — "  I'm  speaking  of  a  man,  not  of  a  place — a 
man  who  had  new  views  about  the  sun  ;  and  the  peo- 
ple ridiculed  his  ideas.     Well " 

"  Div  >e  mean  the  Son  o'  God ? "  his  father  inter- 
rupted earnestl>-,  evidently  glad  Jiat  they  were  com- 
ing to  close  rai'gc  at  last. 

"No,  certain  y  not,  certainly  not.  I'm  talkmg 
about  the  sun  in  the  heavens — he  was  an  astrono- 
mer." 

"  Then  he  has  naeth  n  to  dae  wi'  the  case,"  the  old 
man  retorted  triumphantly—"  it's  foreign  till  the  ar- 
gyment  a'  thegither.  \\'hat  has  astronomy  to  dae 
wi'   a    minister    that    has    eternal    life   to    preach  ? 


■The  OLD  SCHOOL  AND  The  NEIV 


6i 


What's  yon  vanished  sun,  black  oot  half  the  time,  com- 
pared wi'  the  Sun  o'  Righteousness?  It's  naethin', 
simply  naethin'.  I  dinna  see  as  yon  Capernaum 
man  has  ony  bearin'  on  theology  at  a'." 

"  Oh,  I'm  only  using  that  as  an  illustration,  father. 
I'm  only  speaking  of  the  unjust  suspicion  with  which 
men  are  regarded  when  they  discover  new  truths — 
path-finders  you  might  call  them,  to  change  the 
figure." 

"  Aye,  ye'd  better  change  yir  figure,"  and  a  note  of 
ocorr  was  in  his  father's  voice ;  "  ye'd  better  change  it 
again — it'll  stand  it.  That  path-findin',  as  ye  ca'  it, 
may  do  weel  eneuch  for  maitters  o'  the  intellect ;  but 
I'm  tellin'  ye  there's  nae  path-finder  for  the  guilty 
soul  but  yin — an'  He's  the  Shepherd  o'  the  soul. 
We've  got  to  tak  the  bairns'  plar  ,  and  we've  got  to 
hae  the  bairns'  trustfu'  heart,  or  there's  nae  new 
path,  I'm  tellin'  ye.  Dauvit  found  the  path  fine  and 
sae  did  Peter,  and  sae  did  the  prodigal  son — when 
they  lookit  for  it  wi'  a  broken  heart.  There's  nae 
eye  sees  sae  far  as  the  eye  that's  greetin',"  and  the 
old  Scotchman  sat  erect  in  his  chair  as  he  spoke,  like 
one  who  felt  he  was  set  for  the  defense  of  the  gospel. 

"  I  don't  mean  those  personal  matters,  father — not 
at  all — I  mean  opinions  about  truths,  doctrines,  and 
matters  of  that  kmd.  For  instance  these  men  have 
given  us  new  theories  of  the  creation,  and  of  author- 
ship— the  book  of  Isaiah,  for  instance — and  a  more 
modern  interpretation  of  the  Atonement.  It's 
only " 

But  now  Robert  Wishart  was  on  his  feet,  for  vague 


mam 


pi*-iL 


62 


•THE    UNDERTOIV 


|?.|i 
P'*'''"? 


N 


rumours  of  this  very  feature  of  the  new  theology  had 
already  reached  him;  "Did  I  understand  ye  richt  ? 
•  the  Atonement ;  the  Atonement,'  Stephen  !  Has  it 
gone  sae  far  ben  as  that  ?  Wad  they  fumble  \vi'  the 
heart  o'  God  Himsel'  ?  Wad  they  play  hide  and  seek 
i'  the  garden  o'  Gethsemane  ?  My  God,  laddie,  keep 
yir  hands  aff  the  Cross  ;  it's  a'  I  hae ;  and  I'm  an  auld 
man,  near  the  grave  and  the  Judgment  Seat,— and  a* 
the  Avorld  has  naethin'  left  forbye  the  Cross.  Oh, 
Stephen  !     My  son,  my  son,  Stephen  !  " 

The  quivering  voice  is  broken  now  and  hot  tears 
are  coursing  down  the  simple  believer's  cheeks.  His 
strong  frame  shakes  with  the  emotion  of  his  heart,  for 
he  felt  as  if  his  own  son  had  snatched  at  the  only 
pillow  his  weary  head  could  know.  He  walked  a 
minute  about  the  room,  while  his  gaze  still  fondly 
turned,  resting  on  the  Book  that  had  lain  beside  him, 
then  passing  in  melting  tenderne=:  to  rest  upon  the 
bowed  head  his  hand  had  so  often  touched  in  blessing. 

He  stopped  before  a  grandfather  clock,  stately  and 
sympathetic  as  only  its  kind  can  be,  holding  its 
historic  place  -gainst  the  whitened  wall.  His  father's 
father  had  been  its  first  possessor,  and  it  had  borne 
them  both  out  to  sea,  marking  off  the  years  as  they 
had  passed,  well  pleased  with  the  simple  ways  and 
simpler  faith  that  had  served  them  to  the  end.  Per- 
haps his  fond  look  into  its  face  recalled  with  intenser 
vividness  the  undisturbed  pavilion  of  those  peaceful 
days  whose  tranquillit)'  was  nothing  more  or  less  than 
rest  in  God. 

He  put  forth  his  hand  to  the  substantial  key  and 


The  OLD  SCHOOL  AND  7he  NE[V 


63 


began  to  slowly  wind  it.  The  familiar  sound  seemed 
to  compose  him ;  he  closed  the  tall  door  softly,  al- 
most c-ressingly,  while  his  faithful  friend,  its  voice 
subdued  in  consequence,  pressed  cheerfully  on  its  un- 
tiring way.  Then  he  came  and  stood  at  the  back  of 
Stephen's  chair,  his  hand  laid  gently  on  his  son's 
partly  bended  head.  Through  the  father's  mind 
there  passed  the  swift  thought  that  here  the  hands  of 
ordaining  grace  would  soon  be  laid.  An  exultant 
sense  of  a  father's  priestly  place  possessed  his  heart 
and  his  hand  rested  more  firmly  than  before. 

"  Oh,  Stephen,  my  son,"  he  said  at  length,  •'  I 
canna  help  thinkm'  o'  yir  grandfaither  the  nicht. 
He  died  in  yonner  chair,  when  his  day's  hard  work 
was  done.  And  his  latest  thocht  was  this,  Stephen 
— his  latest  thocht  was  this — that  he  was  the  chief  o' 
sinners.  Na,  na,  I'm  wrang — he  had  a  later  thocht 
than  that — it  was  this,  that  the  chief  o'  sinners  had  a 
Saviour — and  I'm  dootin'  he's  had  nae  later  thocht 
than  that,  for  a'  he's  where  the  Licht  is  clearer.  Oh, 
Stephen,  will  ye  no' come  back?  Come  back,  my 
laddie,  to  yir  faither's  heart." 


t«l 


V 


■V. 

i 


hi  The  FURNACE  T IV ICE 

STEPHEN  passed  out  the  farmhouse  door 
through  the  creaking  gate,  and  turned  the 
corner  of  the  barn  towards  the  familiar  copse 
whose  shadowy  outline  was  discernible  through  the 
deepening  dark. 

Soon  he  reached  the  outu  edge  of  tlie  little  fringe 
of  wood,  and  a  silvery  disc  was  visible  on  the  horizon. 
The  moon  was  rising,  and  Stephen  hailed  the  omen. 
All  things  make  for  light,  he  thought,  to  the  heart 
that  truly  seeks  it. 

This  reverie  was  interrupted  before  it  had  well 
begun,  by  a  sound  of  distant  barking.  Soon  the 
youth  heard  a  human  voice  mingling  with  the  dog's, 
evidently  chiding  it,  or  pretending  to  chide  it. 
Stephen  took  his  seat  upon  a  fallen  tree,  Soon  a 
merry  voice  was  heard  :  — 

"  Don't  make  such  a  noise,  Tonko ;  look,  the 
moon's  peeping  out  to  see  what's  the  matter— and 
you'll  waken  all  the  little  birdies  in  their  nests. " 
Then  followed  another  peal  of  canine  repartee. 

"  I'll  never  bring  you  out  again  at  night,  you 
naughty  dog— all  good  doggies  should  be  in  bed  by 
now." 

Often  is  it  said,  and  ever  justly,  that  a  voice  owes 

64 


m 


mm 


Ifi    The    FURNACE    TWICE         63 

much  to  words — that  it  is  but  their  poor  dependent. 
liut  mere  truly   ma)-  it  be  said  that   words  are  the 
debtors  unto  voice,  which   is  hfe-f^iver  to  them  ail. 
What  joy  there  i^  in  trifling  speeches  if  they  but 
employ  those  lips  that  thrill  us  !     Which   Stephen 
Wishart  proved  that  nijjht  benealh  the  timid  moon  ; 
for  this  bantering  speech  was  from  the  dewy  lips  of 
Bessie  Burnett,  and  no  rounded  period  from  Chry- 
sostom's  golden  mouth  could  >•  >  have  stirred  his  soul. 
He    sprang    to    his    feet    in    impulsive    movement. 
Whereupon  the  maiden  stood  trembling  in  the  path, 
while  the  unsympathetic  Tonko  bloomed  into  b'-ist- 
ling  veiitmence,  low  growls  signifying  that  he  had 
good  cause  for  the  outburst. 

"  All  right,  Tonko— that's  a  good  dog.  Don't 
you  know  me,  Bessie  ?     You  know  who  it  is." 

With  a  reassuring  word,  the  girl  laid  her  hand 
upon  the  dog,  whose  armour  instantly  disappeared. 
Bessie  stepped  forward  and  Stephen  was  already  at 
her  side,  his  face  more  eager  than  her  own. 

"  Where  have  you  been,  Bessie  ?  It  must  be  eight 
o'clock  or  after,"  he  said. 

"  Oh,  Stephen,  you  frightened  me  so,"  Bessie  an- 
swered. "  I  couldn't  imagine  who  it  was.  I  took  over 
some  currant  jelly  to  the  Gourlays'_Mrs.  ("jourlay's 
sick.  1  saw  the  light  in  your  house  at  home  and  I 
supposed  you  were  there  with  your  folks  Where 
were  you  going  ?" 

"  Nowhere,"  rejoined  Stephen,  "  I  was  only  out  for 
a  little  walk.  Let's  sit  down  a  minute.  Bessie ;  it's 
such  a  lovely  night.     It's  the  first  real  warm  night 


tf! 


.^4r, 


66 


THE    UNDERTOIV 


Iff 


we've  had.     And  then  you  will  let  me  walk  home 
with  you  after." 

"  They'll  be  looking  for  me  home— and  I'm  afraid 
there's  dew,"  said  the  girl. 

"Oh,  no,  there's  none  to  speak  of;  and  they'll 
think  you  are  just  lingering  a  little  at  the  Gourlays'. 
Come,  Bessie,  I  have  hardly  seen  anything  of  you 
since  I  came  home— and  I'm  going  away  again  very 
soon." 

"Going  away!"  exclaimed  Bessie,  surrendering 
with  the  words,  and  letting  Stephen  bear  her  on : 
"  going  away  !  What  are  you  going  for  ?  Where 
are  you  going  ?  I  thought  you  were  going  to  make 
us  a  long  visit,  now  that  your  college  work  is  done." 
"  No,"  said  the  other.  •'  I'm  going  very  soon- 
next  week,  perhaps.  And  it  may  be  111  go  far 
awa>' — away  across  tlie  ocean." 

"  U'ill  you   be  gone  long.  Stephen  ?  "  she  asked, 
the  slightest  throb  noticeable  in  her  voice. 

"  I  don't  know—but  it's  likely  I  will— perhaps  a 
year.     But  even  a  year  soon  goes  by." 

"  Sometimes  it  does,"  Bessie  said,  very  femininely. 
"  I    know,"  Stephen  went  on,  "  that  I  shall  often 
think  of  tlie  old  place  and  the  old  friends— and  I  liope 
they  will  sometimes  think  of  me." 

Bessie  stirred  in  her  seat,  the  fire  kindling  in  her 
bosom.  She  thought  of  Reuben,  brave,  honest,  faith- 
ful Reuben,  and  the  flame  flickered  lower  for  a  mo- 
ment. But  it  was  only  for  a  moment;  Stephen's 
hand  moved  carelessly,  resting  on  her  own.  Tonko's 
head  was  on  Bessie's  knee,  restlessly  thrusting  about, 


In    The    FURNACE    THRICE 


67 


the  devoted  creature  looking  up  at  quick  intervals  to 
his  mistress's  face,  impatient  of  the  strange  delay. 

"  Oh,  Bessie,"  Stephen  said  softly,  "  Bessie,  come 
closer  to  me." 

"  Don't,  Stephen,  don't,"  Bessie's  trembling  voice 
made  answer,  "  don't  make  it  harder  for  me,  Stephen. 
I  can't — I  must  not." 

"  I  can't  say  all  I  would,  Bessie — the  time  will 
come — but  you  know,  you  know ;  and,  before  I  go 
away " 

"  Stephen,  Stephen  Wishart,  I'm  promised,  I'm 
nearly  promised  to  another,  and  you  are  altogether 
premised — to  God — and  you  ought  to  help  me.  You 
can't  tell  me  what  you  mean ;  and  I  shouldn't  hear  it 
if  you  could — and  yet — oh,  Stephen." 

Her  companion  was  now  upon  his  feet,  and  a  no- 
bler light  glowed  upon  his  face.  "  You're  right,  Bes- 
sie," he  exclaimed,  his  voice  ringing  with  its  purpose. 
"  Your  love  belongs  to  Rube,  and  I'm  not  worthy  to 
unloose  his  shoe-latchet.  Forgive  me,  forgive  me, 
Bessie  ;  this  is  a  kind  of  madness  on  my  part — I'm 
going  home,  I'm  going  back,  and  I  won't  sec  you  any 
more,  Bessie.  Only  I  want  >'oii  to  pray  for  me,  for 
I  really  want  to  conquer,  l^cssic — I  really  do.  And  I 
shall  abvays  wish  the  very  best  for  you  and  Rube, 
dear  old  faithful  Rube.  I'm  going  home,"  and  with- 
out further  word  or  token  of  farewell,  he  turned  from 
the  wondering  girl  and  started  toward  his  father's 
house. 

"  Steve,"  she  called  gently,"  wait  one  minute,  Steve." 
But  he  seemed  not  to  hear,  quickening  his  pace  and 


it 


<  i  I 

in 


■!F»WWP 


^a^ 


'mSIKSiBI^S^t 


68 


THE    UNDERTOIV 


I 


pressing  on,  his  heart  rejoicing  in  the  battle,  but  won- 
dering the  wiiile  at  the  strange  fever  that  so  easily 
possessed  it ;  for  he  knew,  knew  well,  the  disordered 
nature  of  the  impulse  that  had  so  well-nigh  mastered 
him,  and  the  thought  of  it  clothed  him  with  humilia- 
tion. Again  and  agam  he  cursed  this  dark  current 
of  his  soul,  again  and  again  beseeching  the  healing 
stream. 

Thus  employed,  he  has  soon  outdone  the  distance 
that  separated  him  from  the  ever  brightening  light  in 
the  window  beyond.  The  door  opened  before 
Stephen  reached  it,  for  his  footsteps  had  been  heard. 
In  the  streaming  light  stood  Reuben. 

"  Is  that  you,  Stephen  ?  I've  been  often  to  the 
door  looking  for  you.  Where  have  you  been  ?  We 
were  wondering  what  could  have  happened  you." 

"  I've  been  having  a  little  walk,"  his  brother  an- 
swered. "  I  didn't  know  it  was  so  late.  What  are 
you  doing,  father  ?  "  he  ?sked  as  he  entered. 

"  I'm  dae'in'  what  I  haena  had  to  dae  for  mony  a 
year,"  the  old  man  responded ;  "  I  haena  har?  to  med- 
dle wi"t  since  yir  grandfaither  died.  All  that  it  needed 
yir  mither  could  dae  easy  cneuch.  It's  no'  troubled 
wi'  the  feckless  waj's  o'  the  clocks  they're  makin' 
nowadays." 

His  father  was  standing  by  the  trusty  timepiece, 
taller  somewhat  than  himself,  a  bulky  screw-jriver  in 
one  band  and  a  candle  in  the  other.  This  luminary 
was  neve,  called  into  service,  save  for  this  self-same 
duty,  or  to  display  to  admiring  visitor;  what  its  proud 
owner  called  the  "  innerts  "  of  the  faithful  horologe 


Hi 


fl^»?" 


In    The    FURNACE    TWICE 


69 


"  Yir  mithcr  kens  mair  aboot  it  as  I  dac  myscl'," 
Robert  Wishart  said,  recalling  his  tongue  from  alar 
to  utter  the  tribute  ;  for  he  was  at  a  critical  point  just 
now ;  and  at  every  crisis  this  lingual  banner  was  wont 
to  be  displayed. 

"  Where  is  mother,  then  ?  "  Stephen  asked,  looking 
around  the  room. 

"  She's  no'  sae  weel — and  she  gaed  to  her  bed,"  ex- 
plained her  husband.  "  She'd  sune  set  ic  ncht  if  she 
wasna  ailin'  hersel'." 

A  voice  was  heard  from  the  adjoining  room,  "  I'm 
no'  ailin'— no'  ae  bad  as  that.  Gie't  ile,  faither; 
that's  what  it's  needin'.  And  Stephen,  get  ye  a  ban- 
nock for  yirsel"  frae  the  pantry  shelf— and  a  jug  o' 
milk.     I  put  them  by  for  ye.     Ye  maun  be  hungry, 

laddie." 

"Thank  you,  mother,"  answered  her  son;  "you 
may  be  sure  I'll  find  them.  It  was  just  like  your 
thoughtfulnes.:.  You'll  be  better  in  the  morning, 
won't  you,  mother?  " 

"  Aye,  Stephen,  I'll  be  a'  richt  the  morn.  Ye'U 
find  anithcr  quilt  at  the  foot  o'  yir  bed.  The  nichts 
IS  cold,  ye  ken." 

lie  thanked  her  again,  his  eyes  intent  upon  his 
father,  the  mut'fled  thump  of  an  oil  can,  prompted  at 
tlie  base  b}  a  vigorous  thumb,  betokening  the  old 
nian's  cc;>jugal  obedience. 

Robert  Wishart  emerged  presently  from  the  oaken 
case. 

"  I've  gied  her  ile — eneuch  for  the  Sabbath-schule 
at   Christmas,"    he   said,  "but   she   doesna   answer. 


f  I 


t 


70 


THE    UNDERTOW 


Mebbe  it'll  no-  tak  effect  till  the  morn,"  and  he  turned 
well  pleased  with  his  playfulness.  ' 

"VVeel.  weel,"  he  added  abruptly,  "we'll  no- 
bother  wr  her  mair  the  nicht.  We'll  gang  to  oor 
rest  and  fit  oorsels  for  the  Creator's  will  the  morn. 
1  he  nichfll  gang,  if  the  clock  wiUna'  "—and  »he  pious 
philosopher  pushed  his  armchair  close  to  the  fire's 
cheerful  blaze. 

This  was  the  famiUar  signal,  immediately  obcxcd 
by  Reuben  and  Stephen,  who  drew  their  chairs  nearer 
to  their  father's,  settling  themselves  for  the  solemnities 
that  no  hurry  was  ever  permitted  to  curtail  nor  duty 
to  supplant. 

Carefully  was  the  psalm  selected.  W'uh  mature 
deliberation,  as  though  this  were  the  rarest  ceremony 
Robert  Wishart  turned  over  the  pages  of  the  book' 
pausing  here  and  there  to  adjust  a  leaf  that  long 
usage  had  disengaged.  There  were  many  claims 
for  his  favour,  and  some  were  with  difficulty  set 
aside. 

Stephen  was  curiously  interested  in  the  process. 
H.s  nature  had  inherited  the  tinge  of  superstition 
that  so  strongly  marks  the  race  from  which  he  sprung  ; 
and  he  had  a  sort  of  sub-conscious  feeling  that  hh 
father  was  wont  to  choose  the  psalm  under  higher 
guidance  than  his  own. 

"  •  What  time  my  heart  is  overwhelmed,'  that's  a 
grand  yin—we'll  sing  that  the  morn  if  we're  spared  " 
he  said  in  an  undertone,"  we'll  sing  this  yin  the  nicht 
the  twenty-fourth." 

Slowly  arose  the  stately  words,  according  well  with 


^T*^ 


7!rnr^. 


/n    The   FURNACE    JU^ICE         71 

the  strong  voice  and  earnest  soul  of  the  man  who 
poured  them  forth : 

"  Who  i-.  thf  man  that  shall  ascend  into  the  hill  of  fiod 
Or  who  witlun  His  holy  place  bhall  have  a  lirm  abode  ?" 

When  the  first  verse  was  finished,  he  turned  to 
Stephen : 

"  What  way  are  ye  no'  singin',  Stephen  ?  They're 
michty  words ;  and  they're  weel  fittin'  for  a  minister. 
Did  they  no'  sing  it  often  at  tht  roUcge  ?" 

Stephen  made  some  inarticulate  reply,  lifting  his 
book  from  his  knee  and  holding  it  intently  before 
him.  But  his  lips  were  numb  and  dry,  the  outward 
emblem  of  an  inward  drought. 

Before  his  father  could  push  out  again  into  the 
swelling  current,  his  son  interrupted  him  : 

"  This  tune  is  so  difficult,  father.  Let  us  sing  'some- 
thing easier.  I'm  fond  of  the  hymns — and  they  sing 
them  nearly  altogether  at  the  college.  '  Whiter  than 
snow,'  that's  always  suitable,"  he  suggested. 

But  the  old  man  readjusted  his  glasses  relentlessly, 
his  eyes  still  upon  his  book. 

"  Na,  Stephen,  na.  Gin  I  start  a  hymn,  I'll  follow 
it  to  the  end  ;  but  I'll  no'  lay  by  a  psalm  for  nac- 
body.  Sing  the  second  verse,"  wherewith  he  cleared 
his  throat  sonorously,  like  some  vessel's  horn  that 
warns  all  intruders  from  the  track,  repa-red  the  key- 
note thus  disturbed,  and  launched  a^ain  into  the 
stream. 

"  Whose  hands  are  clean,  whose  heart  i*  pure,  and  unto  vanity 
Who  hath  not  iifced  up  his  soul,  nor  swurn  deceitfully." 


Id 


m 


13 


■THE    UXDERTOIV 


i 


The  psalm  concluded,  Robert  Wishart  took  up  the 
bi^'  ha'  JJible  from  the  chair  beside  him  and  selected 
a  portion  from  the  Eternal  W  ord  with  even  niore 
mature  deliberation  than  before. 

"  We'll  read  the  sixty-eij;iith  psahn. '  he  said  at 
last;  "'twas  .L,'rand  to  tlie  Covenanters—and  its  a 
fjrand  \in  jet.  '  Let  God  ari.-,e,  let  His  enemies  be 
scattered."'  he  be-an.  lUit  again  an  interruption 
stopped  him.     It  was  Jean  this  time. 

"  laither,  that's  a  jjrand  bit,  nae  doot,  but  I'm 
wantin'  anithcr  piece  the  niclit.  It's  for  the  Cove- 
nanters tae— but  it's  the  nev/  covenant.  Wull  je  no' 
read  that  bonny  bit  aboot  the  mony  mansions  and 
the  troubled  heart  ?  " 

"  Vera  weel.  Jean.  I'll  read  it  for  ye."  answered 
her  husband—"  it's  sweeter  ilka  time  I  turn  to  it. 
Here  it's,"  and  the  wondrous  music  bejjan  to  issue 
from  his  lips :— "  Let  not  your  heart  be  troubled. 
.  .  .  In  my  Father's  house  arc  many  mansions  ;  if 
it  were  not  so  I  would  have  told  you." 

All  hail!  Immortal  sprint,'  whose  livinj;  waters 
have  quenched  the  thirst  of  time!  All  hail!  Im- 
mortal path  that  leadest  to  that  blessed  tide  !  Trod- 
den by  weary  feet  innumerable  hast  thou  been  ;  but 
no  flower  hath  been  crushed,  no  pitfall  worn,  on  all 
thy  radiant  way !  The  livinjj  have  drunk  and  been 
refre^shed  at  thine  eternal  fount;  the  dying  have 
gently  sipped,  and  pressing  on,  havecaug'it  the  lights 
of  home  !  Oh.  wondrous  words,  the  far  fuiiig  lullaby 
for  the  world's  orphaned  soul,  the  unwasting  balm  for 
the  world's  broken  heart !     Taught  beside  the  moth- 


In    The    FURNACE    7  U/ 1 C  E 


73 


er's  knee,  but  learned  amid  the  din  •■  battle  or  among 
the  waves  of  death,  thine  arc  the  accents  that  prove 
tho.-ic  lips  Divine. 

"The  Lord  bless  to  us  the  readin'  o'  His  holy 
word,"  Robert  Wishart  >aid  reverently  as  lie  fin- 
ished, the  formula  unfrayed  by  decades  of  incessant 
use: — "  Let  us  pray.  " 

They  knelt,  the  priest-like  father  and  the  sens  whom 
he  had  taught  to  pray.  Un  aimple  words,  u  ith  many 
a  quaint  expression,  with  many  a  phra.-c  bequeathed 
from  lips  now  minj^ling  with  the  du;.r,  v.  ith  many  an 
aid  from  the  great  language  of  the  ISofik-,  but  always 
in  the  new  born  ritual  uf  a  heart  that  -'jck^  it-  I.  jr  I 
by  virgin  paths  of  penitence  and  need,  plvip-^  its 
noble  plaint  as  an  eagle  cleaves  the  ether  \\\'.i\  it- 
wing,  the  soul  of  Robert  Wishart  went  upward  to  iti- 
God. 

They  rise  from  their  knees  and  are  all  standing  now. 

"  We'll  gang  to  oor  beds,  my  laddies  ;  the  fire's  low 
and  the  clo':k'll  no'  need  vvindin'  the  nicht." 

"Good-night,  father,"  they  said  together,  and 
started  to  leave  the  room. 

"  Guid-nicht ;  but  ye'U  no'  gang  wi'oot  a  word  to 
yir  mirtier.  Mebbe  she  s  restin'.  I'll  'et  ye  ken. 
He  passed  into  the  room,  their  unchanged  room  since 
he  had  brought  her  there  rejoicing  as  his  bride. 
Reuben  and  Stephen  waited  for  a  moment,  but  he 
did  not  reappear. 

"  I  guess  she'?  sleeping, '  said  Reuben,  "  we'll 
go  on." 

They  heard  a    ound,  not  articulate  or  intelligible, 


14 


THE   UNDERTOPi^ 


but  they  knew  it  was  their  father ;  they  lingered  at 
the  door  beneath  the  stair.  A  minute  passed,  silent 
still. 

"  Let  us  sec,"  said  Stephen,  and  the  brothers  turned 
together  to  the  room.  The  lamp  was  burning  dimly, 
almost  out,  and  they  could  detect  the  odour  of  the 
burning  wick.  Vet  there  was  light  enough  to  show 
them  a  bending  form,  the  same  beside  which  they 
had  knelt  in  the  room  without.  It  was  their  father's, 
low  bowed,  and  his  hands  were  clasped,  and  pressed 
against  his  cheek.  They  looked  closer,  and  observed 
that  another  hand  was  Dct.vecn  his  own,  tightly  held. 

"  That's  mother's  hand  he's  holding,"  Reuben 
whispered.  "  I  wonder  if  she's  worse,"  for  they  were 
both  amazed,  demonstrations  of  tenderness  before 
other  eyes  being  rare  in  such  lives  as  theirs.  They 
moved  closer  ai^d  looked  intently  ;  but  their  father 
seemed  unconscious  of  their  presence. 

"  Get  the  other  lamp,  Stephen,"  Reuben  said,  his 
voice  changed  strangely  from  that  of  a  moment  be- 
fore. Stephen  obeyed,  and  returned  in  an  instant 
with  the  light. 

Reubon  took  it  from  his  hands,  holding  it  closer  to 
the  peaceful  face  upon  the  pillow.  Peaceful  indeed 
it  was — for  the  long  strife  was  over  ;  and  the  gentle 
smile,  such  as  every  broken  lad  beholds  on  his  dead 
mother's  face,  betokened  that  the  new-found  rest  was 
sweet. 

He  placed  the  lamp  upon  the  table,  looking  long 
into  his  brother's  face  ;  for  kins'nip  is  never  really 
known  till  such  an  hour  brings  the  great  illumination. 


-^■^jl^z^L; 


■fmHi 


In    The    FURNACE    TIV/CE 


7S 


Then  he  laid  his  hand  upon  his  father's  head,  never 
thus  laid  before.  The  father  moved,  and  turned  his 
face  upward  toward  his  sons. 

"  Yir  mither's  restin',  as  I  told  ye,"  he  said  softly ; 
and  a  wonderful  light  looked  out  upon  them  from  his 
eyes.  "  She  aye  tell't  nic  she'd  '^'dt\^  hame  like  this 
some  day — but  I  never  thocht  "twad  be  sac  easy.  It's 
hame  onyway — and  it's  beautiful.  Luik  at  yir  mith- 
er's face." 

They  did  look,  but  tears  soon  stopped  their  ga/.c  ; 
and  they  turned  to  leave  the  room. 

"  Come  away,  father,"  they  whispered  to  the  kneel- 
ing man. 

"  Na,  na,"  he  answered,  looking  up,  "  what  way 
would  I  gnng  awa'  ?  She's  my  ain  Jean — and  the 
room  s  sv  cct  wi'  the  Saviour's  presence.  He  cam' 
again  and  receivit  her  to  Ilimsel — tak  the  lamp  wi' 
ye.     I  willna  need  it." 

They  went  out,  carrying  the  lamp  with  them  as  he 
wished,  and  sat  silently  in  the  room. 

"  Shouldn't  we  go  and  call  some  of  the  neigh- 
bours ?  "  said  Stephen,  presently.  "  We'll  need  some 
one." 

"  Not  now,"  answered  his  brother.  "  We'll  wait 
till  father's  through." 

A  little  later,  they  went  together  across  the  room, 
looking  in  at  the  open  door.  Their  father  was  still 
bowed  beside  the  precious  dead. 

"  Sleep  on,  my  Jean,"  thej-  heard  him  murmur. 
"  Sleep  sweet,  my  lassie ;  )'ir  rest  is  won,  wecl  won, 
my  bonny." 


8 


if 
I  ■ 


76 


THE    UNDERTOW 


V  i- 


Whereat  they  took  one  long  look  into  each  other's 
face,  and  then  the  clcicr  brother  drew  Stephen  gently 
to  himself,  his  arm  encircling  him  with  a  tenderness 
like  to  that  they  were  to  know  no  more.  The  tean. 
were  gushing  from  his  eyes,  but  he  still  sought  to 
staunch  the  flow  of  his  brother's  grief,  caressing  him 
as  he  had  been  wont  to  do  in  the  days  that  were  now 
so  far  behind  them. 

"  I  want  mv  mother,"  Stephen  .suddenly  cried  out, 
the  eternal  chudlikc  wailing  through  his  voice. 

"  Come,  Stephen,  come,"  whispered  Reuben. 
"  Our  mother  is  with  God— and  father." 

"  Let  us  go  back,  Rube/'  he  sobbed  again.  "  Let 
us  go  back :  father's  all  alone." 

"  Come,  Stephen,  come  away ;  our  father's  not 
alone — he's  with  them  both." 


.  i 


EBS! 


r 


'I 


The  SCHOLAR  LEAyES  for  ENGLAND 

THE  morning  sun  arose  serene  and  bright,  to 
greet  with  wondering  eye  the  old  surprise 
of  sin  and  struggle,  of  death  and  desolate- 
ness,  caressing  each  as  best  he  could  with  his  un- 
broken calm. 

The  day  rolled  by  on  silent  hinges,  radiant  to  the 
last,  every  hour  counted  precious  by  those  whose 
silent  treasure  was  to  be  borne  from  them  on  the 
morrow.  Stephen  could  not  but  marvel  at  his  father's 
calmness  ;  for  he  moved  among  them  hke  one  girded 
with  a  panoply  they  might  not  make  their  own. 

Throughout  the  day,  he  passed  in  and  out  as 
o'jual,  overlooking  the  necessary  duties  that  must  not 
be  neglected,  accepting  with  grave  dignity  the  kindly 
words  of  sympathetic  neighbours,  responding  with 
tribute  to  the  dead  in  terms  of  chaste  reserve. 

The  next  day  came,  whose  afternoon  was  to  cast 
its  unretreating  shadow  over  all  the  evening  of  his 
life.  This  was  her  burial  day,  who  had  come  thither 
as  his  bride,  the  fragrance  of  her  coming  destined  to 
grow  sweeter  with  the  years. 

Its  morning  Robert  Wishart  spent  alone  with  his 
beloved  and  Another.  He  emerged  at  noon,  passing 
to  the  door  and  gazing  at  the  rising  slo])c  before 
him ;  but  from  thai  hour  his  eyes  Acre  never  to  De 

77 


78 


THE   U\DERJ01V 


withdrawn  from  a  i -chcr  green  upon  far  other  peaks 
on  which  they  three  had  looked  together. 

When  iMr.  Sliearer  came,  tlie  countr>side  had  al- 
ready gathered,  sitting  voiceless,  the  great  anthem  of 
silence  arising  from  the  heart  of  loneliness.  They 
had  all  known  her. 

Then  Robert  Wishart  motioned  to  his  sons,  in- 
viting the  minister  too,  as  his  .simple  courtesy  sug- 
gested, to  enter  with  them.  Mr.  Shearer  took  a 
quick,  longing  look  at  the  gentle  visage,  tiien  imme- 
diately withdrew  and  closed  the  door  behind  him. 

I- our  or  five  of  the  neighbours,  denied  adnnssion 
to  the  crowded  house,  were  standing  by  the  window 
unconscious  that  the  moment  of  the  great  farewell 
had  cume. 

The  father  called  gently  to  one  of  them  :  — 
"  Ye'll  no'  mind  if  I  ask  je  to  gang  awa'  a  mcenit, 
Weelum-tak  the  ithers  wi'  ye.     Its  the  last  time 
well  be  a'  thegither  here.  " 

"Aye,  Robert,  aye;  we  should  hae  thocht  o't," 
the  other  answered  in  hushed  tones,  and  the  group 
moved  quickly  out  of  view. 

They  stood  together,  together  looking  down  on  the 
unanswcring  face.  Theirs  was  the  old.  old  struggle 
so  oft  repeated,  of  those  who  would  look  enough 
to  last  the  yearning  years,  the  jcars  whose  vision 
shall  b-  mocked  and  thwarted  by  the  grave.  Who 
amongst  us  that  has  not  vainly  striven  thus  to  lay  up 
treasure  against  this  famine  of  the  heart  ? 

A  low  muan  escaped  Reuben's  lips.     .Stephen  was 
trembling. 


The  SCHOLAR  LEASES  for  ENGLAND     79 

"  Dinna  my  sons,  dinna ! "  their  father  pleaded. 
"  She  had  a  gran'  hame  gaein' — and  she  was  lang 
spared  to  us — and  she's  happy  the  nicht — an",  an'  it's 
the  will  o'  God, "  he  added,  his  hands  tightly  clasped, 
and  drawn  to  his  lull  height — "  it's  the  will  o'  God," 
he  repeated,  finding  precious  to  his  soul  the  shelter 
of  that  great  pavilion. 

A  nd  when  he  opened  the  door  and  came  forth  to 
the  people,  the  downcast  eyes  of  his  neighbours,  had 
they  been  suddenly  upraised,  would  have  seen  the 
glory  of  God  upon  the  bridegroom's  face. 


When  the  evening  was  come,  Stephen  and  his 
father  were  sitting  in  their  accustomed  places,  Reu- 
ben without,  and  busy  as  before. 

"  Put  on  yir  cap,  Stephen  ;  let's  tak  a  bit  walk 
thegither — the  evcnin's  fine." 

They  strolled  out.  passing  the  barn,  which  gave 
forth  its  wonted  noises  ;  they  could  hear  Reuben's 
voice  within  as  he  moved  among  them. 

'  V'ir  gaein'  awa',  Stephen,"  his  father  said  sud- 
denly, concluding  a  long  silen..  .  '•  \'ir  gaein'  awa', 
and  I'll  no'  hae  ye  w  i'  me ;  but  it'll  aye  rest  yir  heart 
to  ken  how  guid  an'  faithfu'  Reuben  is.  That's  no' 
to  say,  mind  ye,  that  ye're  no'  guid  and  faithfu'  tae. 
But  ye're  called  awa' — ye're  to  preach  the  gospel,  and 
ye  canna  bide  at  hamc,  like  Reuben." 

Stcph  :n  started.  }  Ic  wondered  if  his  father's  words 
had  the  meaning  they  wmild  seem  to  convey. 

"  Why  do  you  say  I'm  going  awaj-,  father?     Or 


8o 


THE    UNDERTOiy 


R' 
t 


I 


[fjj 


w% 


f 


what  do  you  mean  by  that?     Going  whcrr  ? "  he 
c'tokcd  eagerly. 

"  I  thocht  yc'd  ask  nie  that,"  his  father  rephed, 
smihng  slightly,  «•  and  that's  the  verra  thing  I  was 
wantin'  to  tell  ye.  I've  decided  aboot  yon  maitter 
you  and  me  was  talkin'  aboot." 

"  What  liave  >oli  decided,  father?  "  asked  the  son, 
though  lie  knew  well  what  the  decision  was ;  nor  did 
it  seem  so  sweet  as  he  had  dreamed. 

"  I've  decided  for  to  gie  >-e  the  money  I  got  frae 
the  Duke,"  said  the  old  man  very  quietly,  "  and 
ye'll  gang  till  the  great  college  in  Edinburgh.  And 
I'll  trust  yc  aboot  the  new  theology,  my  son.  I 
wadna  wunner  if  it  wad  cure  ye  athegither,  gaein' 
richt  to  the  fountain  head—'  a  hair  frae  the  liide  o' 
the  hound  that  bit  ye.'  my  faither  aye  used  to  say. 
Ye'll  mebbe  find  it's  like  thae  new  kinds  o'  parritch  ye 
hear  aboot— they  aye  come  back  to  the  auld  oatmeal, 
they  tell  me." 

Stephen  interrupted  him.  "  The  old  oatmeal's 
good  enough  for  me,  father.  Only  one  might  hnd 
it  purer— free  from  shells,  you  know." 

His  fath.  :•  '..'•. >d.  "I'll  risk  the  shells,"  he  said 
simply.  «'  1  vv,  been  riskin'  them  since  afore  yc  vas 
born ;  and  ,ae  did  my  faither — and  yir  mithcr, 
Stephen,  yir  mithcr  found  it  pure  cneuch.  But  ye'll 
try  the  great  college,  as  I  said  to  yc.  My  mind's  made 
up—'  mak  a  spoon  or  spile  a  horn,'  as  my  faither  used 
to  say." 

"  I  want  to  tell  j-ou,  father,  how  greatly  I  appreciate 
your  kindness,"  Stephen  ventured,  a  little  later.    «<  I 


The  SCHOLAR  LEAl^ES  for  ENGLAND    81 

value  that  more  than  I  do  the  money — and  I'll  try  to 
make  a  wise  use  of  it." 

"  There's  no  peedcessity  for  thankin'  mc  ;  I'm  yir 
fdither.  And  it'-s  no'  me  as  should  be  thankit,  ony- 
how.  There's  sununat  I  oujjht  to  tell  ye.  Are  ye 
listcnin',  Stephen  ?  " 

"  Yes,  father,  In)  listening ;  what  is  it  ?  "  answered 
Stephen,  for  he  knew  the  ^ignilicance  of  his  father's 
tone. 

"  There's  twa  things  I'm  wantin'  to  tell  ye,"  the 
old  man  went  on  ;  "  the  yins  aboot  yir  mither — and 
the  ither's  aboot  Reuben.  It's  to  them  alane  ye're 
owin'  yir  trip  to  Edinburgh.  The  vera  nicht  yir 
mither  died — ye  was  oot  haein'  yir  bit  kvalk — she 
ca'd  me  into  the  room ;  and  rv'mt  div  ye  think  she 
said?" 

"  How  could  I  tell,  father?  Something  kind  and 
good,  I'm  sure,"  said  her  son. 

"  Aye,  'twas  baith  kind  and  guid — '  father,  ye'd 
better  let  the  laddie  gang " — that  was  what  she  said. 
Then  she  said  as  how  Reuben  had  asked  her  to  plead 
\vi'  mc  to  let  ye  gang — and  Reuben  spoke  to  me 
himsel'." 

"  What  ?  "  interrupted  Stephen,  "  Reuben  what  ?  " 

"  Reuben  spoke  to  me  himsel' — 'twas  fiir  noble  o' 
the  laddie.  I  le  said  we  a'  had  eneuch  to  dac  us  here  ; 
an'  if  Stephen  wantit  mair  learnin'  we  ought  to  let 
him  gang  where  he  cud  get  it.  There  was  naethin' 
he  wantit  for  himsel",  he  said.  And  there  was  some- 
thing mair,  but  I  dinna  ken  if  I  jught  to  tell't."  And 
the  voice  that  spoke  tlie  words  seemed  husky  now. 


I 


«i 


82 


THE    UNDERTOl^ 


;5j 


Do  tell  me.     I  know  it 


"What  was  it,  father? 
was  worthy  of  him." 

The  one  thus  importuned  was  silent  for  a  minute, 
seating  himself  upon  a  stone,  the  better  to  give  him- 
self up  to  the  necessary  meditation. 

"  Aye,  'twas  worthy— 'twas  worthy,  I'm  thinkin'," 
he  said  at  length.  ••  and  I'll  tell  ye  what  it  was— ye'U 
no*  forget  it.  He  said,  if  I'd  gie  ye  the  money,  he'd 
aye  bide  wi'  me  to  the  tnJ.  He  was  thinkin'  o'  gacin" 
awa'  before,  ye  ken.  But  he  said  he'd  bide  wi'  me  to 
the  end—which  I'm  hopin"  '11  no'  be  ower  Ian-."  his 
voice  trembling  as  he  spoke. 

"  That  was  noble  of  him,  noble  of  him,  father," 
Stephen  said,  struggling  with  emotion. 

"  'Twas  fair  beautiful,"  returned  the  other,  "  and  ye 
can  hde  the  money,  Stephen— and  yir  faither's 
blessin*  wi't.  If  Reuben  docsna  need  it,  I  dmna  need 
it  mysel'.  I  tcll't  ye,  when  ye  spoke  to  me  afore,  that 
I  was  thinkin'  to  tak  yir  mither  for  a  wee  bit  holiday 
—but  she's  gone  on  ahead  o'  me,"  and  the  trembling 
voice  was  now  choked  with  tears,  the  struj^Tgijng  face 
turned  from  his  son,  gazing  at  a  di.-;tanr  window 
through  the  bitter  mist. 

Stephen  scarce  knew  what  to  do.  The  heavenly 
art  vi  comfort  had  not  yet  been  learned  by  him 
e.«pecially  touard  his  father.  His  own  ej-es  were 
dim.  and  he  laid  his  hand  helplessly  on  his  father's 
arm.  The  latter  shook  himself  slightly,  resolved  to 
finish  bravely  what  he  had  begun  to  say. 

■   Sae  she'!!  no'  be  needin'  it, Stephen— and  I'll  no'  be 
needin'  it— I  hae  treasure  itherwhere.     An'  I'll  gie  it 


The  SCHOLAR  LE/tl^ES  for  ENGLAND    S} 

to  ye — I'll  gie  it  to  ye  when  we  gang  back  to  the 
hcose.     Let's  gang  noo." 

He  hnked  the  action  to  the  word,  rising  as  he 
spoke,  sk  wly  followed  by  his  wondering  son,  upon 
whose  mind  the  greatness  of  his  father's  life  was 
slowly  dawning. 

They  came  to  the  housi  to  find  Reuben  drawing 
from  his  faithful  violin  the  strains  of  the  I^nd  of  the 
Leal.  Stephen  moves  to  light  the  lamp,  but  his  la- 
ther's hand  restrains  him  till  the  last  strain  has  died 
away. 

"Ye  can  licht  the  lamp  noo,  Stephen,"  he  said. 

This  done,  he  rises  and  take  it  from  his  son ;  then 
he  tuuis  toward  the  room  in  which  he:  had  stood  but 
a  few  hours  before.  Returning  in  a  moment,  ho 
holds  in  his  hand  a  well-worn  wallet,  stoutly  filled. 

"  'Twa.i  my  faither's,"  he  said  abstractedly,  "  but 
he  never  had  sae  mucklc  in  t.  liut  he  had  ither 
treasure,  tac,  that  nae  human  hand  cud  hold.  It's  a 
lot  o"  money,  this,"  he  added,  reverting  to  the  earthly. 

One  by  one  he  counted  out  the  bills,  placing  them 
in  Stephen's  palm,  intoning  the  increasing  figures 
with  a  solemn  voice  till  the  grand  total  was  an- 
nounced. 

"There  ye  are,  Stephen."  ho  exclaimed,  when  the 
operation  was  complete,  "  ye  hae  it  a'.  My  hand's 
empty,  an'  yir  hand's  fu' — mcbbe  it's  the  same  wi' 
oor  heids,"  he  appended  in  an  undertone ;  but  a  cer- 
tain smile  that  illuminetl  the  strong  features  indicnted 
that  he  had  his  "  doots"  concerning  thii,  as  he  would 
have  said  himself. 


84 


THE    UNDERJOIV 


Stephen  was  clothed  with  cuibarrasMncnt,  though 
he  knew  not  why.  Alas  !  He  knew  not  why.  He 
held  the  money  between  lu>  thumb  and  finger  for  a 
moment,  then  bore  it  toward  his  pocket.  This  may 
have  impressed  him  as  unseemly— too  hasty  burial 
after  death.  In  any  case  he  recalled  the  motion, 
sitting  with  the  unfamiliar  sheaf  sti!  cnclo-^ed  as 
before.  He  moved  uneasily,  and  tli  rustle  of  its 
foliage  could  be  heard,  that  foliage  which  poor  man- 
kind accounts  as  the  very  fruitage  of  the  tree  of  life. 
At  length  he  spoke. 

"  I'm  sure  I  don't  kno.v  how  to  thank  you,  father. 
I^  shall  never  forget  your  generosity.  And  Im  sure 
I'll  try  to  make  a  good  use  of  the  money ;  and— 
and— the  lamp's  smoking,  father,"  he  concluded  hast- 
ily, hailing  the  pillar  of  cloud  as  gladly  as  did  ever 
bewildered  Israelite  of  old. 

The  father  sprang  quickly  to  set  it  right,  for  it  was 
smoking  heartily,  doubtless  overcome  by  the  un- 
wonted spectacle. 

"  I  know  it,  Stephen,  I  know  it,"  his  father  cried  ; 
but  whether  referring  to  the  lamp  or  to  the  lan- 
guage could  not  be  told,  "  and  1  hope  yell  aye  be 
caretu'  wi'  money.  A  minister  that  doeona  look 
weel  to  his  affairs  is  a  puir  cratur.  They  maun 
soar,  nae  d>)ot— but  they  should  aye  keep  their  feet 
on  the  solid  ground  aneath  them." 

Stephen  tclt  he  should  say  something  more :— '•  And 
I'm  more  than  thankful  to  you,  Reuben,  for  the  un- 
selfish part  you  have  tak.:n.  After  all  your  hard 
work  on  the  farm  and " 


r-St 


The  SCHOLAR  LEAl^ES  for  ES'GLASD    85 


"Oh,  don't,  Steve — please  don't,"  Reuben  inter- 
rupted ;  "  yuu'rc  needing'  it,  and  I'm  not — and  it's  no 
more  than  ri^Ut.     I'leai>e  don't  say  a  word,  Steve." 

"  And  there's  ae  ihmg  mair,  Stephen,"  broke  in  the 
father,  evidently  aware  that  speech  was  difficult  to 
the  others,  "  when  yc  _^'any  till  the  auld  country,  ye 
maun  ^ang  to  ^ce  the  Duke.  I  want  ye  to  thank 
him  yirsel'.  Ye  11  find  him  jui-^t  a  man,  like  ithcr 
men.  Diiina  be  feart  o'  him — he  likes  an  honest 
man,  if  he's  his  faither's  son.  He'll  a  k  ye  to  hac 
supper  wi'  him,  nac  doot — an'  mebbe  to  bide  the 
njcht.     Ye'U  find  the  hoose  a  f^rand  yin." 

"  Where  does  he  live?  "  asked  Stephen. 

"At  Kelso — ye  ken  where  Kelso  is.  It's  no'  far 
frae  Jeilboro,  where  mony  o'  yir  forbears  is  buried — 
at  the  Abbey.  An'  it's  no'  muckle  mair  nor  an  hour 
or  twa  frae  Edinburgh  itsel'.  My  faither  used  to  drive 
the  sheep  to  the  market  at  Auld  Reeky  mony  a 
time." 

"  At  Kelso !  repeated  Stephen.  "  I'd  better  mark 
that  down ;  "  ■  ith  which  he  rummaged  in  his  breast 
pocket,  finding  no  tablet,  but  taking  opportunity  to 
deposit  the  money. 

"  I  fere's  a  bit  leaf  oot  o'  the  almanac,"  said  his 
father  as  he  handed  it  to  him,  observing  the  fruitless- 
ness  of  his  search — "  write  it  doon  on  that.  Ye'll 
call  the  Duke  '  His  Grace'  when  ye're  talkin'  to  him, 
mind — a  strange  kind  o'  a  name  for  a  man,  tae, '  he 
mused,  "  but  it's  what  he  ayr  gets — and  liis  faither 
afore  him.  He  has  yin  servant  to  lace  his  boots,  an' 
anither  yin  to  tie  them,  my  laither  said.     The  old 


I 


MICROCOPY    RESOIUTION    TEST    CHART 

:ANSI  and  ISO  TEST  CHART  No    2) 


A     /-IPPLIED  irVMGE 


'6^5   East   MQin    ^•■f.f 

''61    <.ai  -  0300  -  P^o-.f 
""'ei   288  -  5989  -  Fa, 


86 


THE    UNDERTOIV 


Duke  had  the  Hke  o'  that  aboot  him— but  they  could 
gie  him  naethin'  at  the  last  but  a  grave  to  himsel'," 
and  the  philosopher  looked  out  from  serious  eyes. 

"  Where  is  he  buried,  father  ?  "  Reuben  asked,  his 
simple  life  far  removed  from  the  waj-s  of  great- 
ness. 

"  In  the  chaipel,  Reuben— the  chaipel  at  the  castle," 
his  father  answered—"  but  it's  in  the  ground,  for  a' 
that,"  he  added  sententiously ;  "  and  the  man  wha 
laced  his  shoon  and  the  ither  yin  wha  tied  them— 
they're  buried  no'  far  frae  there.  An'  they  hae  a 
grave  apiece.  Weel,  laddies,  the  nicht  is  wi'  us  ;  let's 
mak  ready  for  cor  rest." 

****** 

Preparations  for  Stephen's  long  journey  were  soon 
completed.  His  trunk  was  ready,  prepared  by  other 
hands  than  those  whose  benediction,  far  carrying, 
hath  ever  rested  on  the  tender  toil.  The  felicitations 
and  admonitions  of  his  old-time  friends  and  neigh- 
bours had  been  duly  received  and  acknowledged. 
Introductions,  messages,  addresses,  had  been  duly 
entrusted  to  the  departing  one,  duly  forgotten  or 
ignored,  as  it  has  ever  been  since  the  foundation  of 
the  world.  A  sleeting  rain  marred  the  morning 
of  his  departure,  and  Robert  Wishart  announced  that 
he  had  abandoned  his  original  purpose  of  going  to 
the  station. 

"  I'll  stand  at  the  door,"  he  said,  "  and  wave  ye  as 
far  as  I  can  see.  I  want  yir  last  sight  o'  the  au'd 
place  to  be  mixed  wi'  )-in  o'  the  auld  folks— an'  I'll 


.  .ri-JT;*  '•m: 


7hc  SCHOLAR  LEASES  for  ENGLAND    87 

bide  here  till  ye  come  back,  if  it's  the  will  o'  God 
that  we're  to  meet  again." 

He  wrung  his  son's  hand  when  the  parting  hour 
came ;  but  no  tear,  no  breaking  voice,  could  be  de- 
tected. 

"  IMind  ye  yir  niither,  Stephen,"  he  said  in  the  lowest 
of  tones,  "  ye  Kcn  what  made  her  life  sae  beautiful, 
and  what  made  the  valley  bricht.  Yir  mither's  God 
gang  wi'  ye." 

Then  he  turned  and  went  into  the  house,  reappear- 
ing to  wave  a  dainty  kerchief  that  Stephen's  heart 
knew  well. 

The  brothers  drove  to  the  station  in  almost  un- 
broken silence.  When  a  distant  wreath  of  smoke  be- 
tokened the  approaching  train,  Reuben  drew  Stephen 
aside. 

"Take  this,  Stephen,"  he  said,  trying  to  thrust 
something  soft  into  his  hand.  "  It's  not  much — it's 
only  eleven  dollars.  I  saved  it  from  the  wood  money 
to  get  a  dress  for  mother — and  she's " 

"  Reuben,  I  can't — I  won't." 

"  Do,  Steve,  do,"  the  other  said  again,  "  please 
take  it.  Get  some  books  with  it,  Steve — and  write 
her  name  in  them.     Good-bye  !     Good-bye  !  " 

But  with  the  memory  of  Reuben's  greater  sacrifice 
still  before  him,  Stephen  pushed  back  his  brother's 
pleading  hand.  "  No,  Rube,  you  keep  it  and  buy 
something  for  Bessie.  Good-bye.  God  bless  jou, 
Rube." 

An  instant  later  the  train  was  off,  bearing  with  it 
a    strangely    troubled    heart,    swelling   with    many 


"  :<si4M?Efc««ra5?«.Tiii«-7^  .*  \  ^tm 


88 


THE    UNDERTOW 


thoughts.  The  memory  of  his  mother,  the  exalted 
vision  of  his  father,  the  warm  tide  of  his  brother's  un- 
selfisli  love — all  these  united  to  stir  the  tumult  of  his 
mind. 

His  hand  is  before  his  face.  "  Make  me  true,  oh, 
God,"  he  cries  half-aloud  ;  and  answering  purpose 
fills  his  soul.  His  glance  roams  throu^^^h  the  window, 
and  he  sees  familiar  fields ;  for  the  iron  road  leaves 
this  peaceful  neighbourhood  by  a  long  and  slowly 
rounding  curve.  A  familiar  house  flashes  on  his  view. 
He  knows  it  well,  and  his  heart  leaps  with  a  new 
emotion.  Still  gazing,  he  sees  a  maiden's  figure  be- 
neath a  familiar  thorn,  already  whitening  with  its 
spreading  blossoms.  Golden  tresses  hang  about  the 
wistful  face,  turned  in  sad  eagerness  toward  him  as 
though  she  knew  his  place.  A  branch,  broken  from 
the  tree,  is  in  her  hand,  and  she  is  waving  it  in  gentle 
silence  toward  the  departing  train. 

A  moment,  and  the  scene  has  vanished  from  his 
view ;  the  train  rushes  on — but  an  old  tenant  has  en- 
tered Stephen's  heart  to  find  it  swept  and  garnished 
once  again ;  and  conflict  rages  like  a  flood. 


^1 


1'^i^pm^sm^^mt  """^^m^mMi 


VII 


LOSfDONS   PREACHER-ACTOR. 


L 


KT  us  take  an  observatory,  Mather." 

"  Take  what,  Wishart— whatever  arc  you 
talking;  about  ?  " 

"An  observatory— a  bus.  I  mean;  surprised  I 
have  to  explain  so." 

"Oh,  I  understand— not  bad,  either.  All  right. 
No,  that  one's  no  good  for  us— here  we  are,  thus  is 
for  the  Strand :  room  on  top,  too— two  scats  beside 
the  driver.     Come  alone." 

And  in  a  moment,  swaying  and  rocking  along  the 
passage,  the  two  companions  had  gained  their  places, 
the  vantage  points  of  all  London,  the  right  hand 
and  the  left  of  a  genial  driver  of  a  London  bus. 

Stephen  Wishart  has  the  right-hand  scat,  looking 
with  all  his  eyes,  and  listening  with  all  his  ears,  en- 
chanted by  the  magic  of  the  world's  metropolis. 

And  his  companion,  Ernest  ALathcr,  was  a  student 
and  prospective  minister  like  himself;  on  the  broad 
Atlantic  these  two  had  met,  and  there  their  friendship 
had  been  formed.  ^Lather  had  arrived  in  London 
somewhat  earli.-  -bar  the  other  ;  his  sojourn  in  the 
great  city  was  ,.  ..ost  at  an  end. 

"  This  bus  takes  us  to  the  Lyceum,  docs  it  not, 
driver  ?  "  asked  Stephen  of  the  man  besid.;  him. 
"Right   you    arc,    guv'nor;    that's    what    it  does. 

S9 


^m^^w:'i^^^^^^/smmim^m»imms^ 


-W^B^^- 


90 


THE    UNDERTOW 


Leastways,  it'll  set  you  down  at  Wellinjjton,  an'  that's 
'arf  a  stonc's-throw.  You'll  be  after  'Knry  I  lining, 
I  reckon  ?  " 

"  Ves,  that's  what  we're  after,"  Mather  a_c;reed. 
"  Would  you  tell  us  whereabouts  in  the  theatre 
we  should  take  our  tickets  ?  My  friend  and  I  aren't 
very  familiar  with  such  things." 

"  That's  accordin'  to  'ow  you  feels,"  returned  the 
Londoner,  his  face  a  battle-field  .vhereon  a  grin  was 
tasting  victory.  "  That's  accordin'  to  'ow  you  feels  ; 
a  box  is  a  helegan*;  place  if  you  feels  that  way ;  don't 
care  for  'em  myself — too  hexposed — draughty  too. 
don't  you  know.  I  alius  takes  the  dress  circle  my- 
self— when  I  takes  the  kiddies,  upper  gallery,  front 
row — only  seven  bob  apiece,"  and  the  driver  winked  at 
all  the  Strand.  A  few  minutes'  drive,  enlivened  by 
further  comment  from  the  Jehu,  brought  the  sight- 
seers to  their  destination,  and  they  were  soon  settled 
in  such  seats  as  they  found  it  possible  to  secure. 
Delicious  twilight  clothed  the  great  playhouse  in  its 
suggestive  shades,  and  the  seductive  strains  of  soft 
music  stole  about  the  expectant  pair  who  settled 
themselves  for  an  experience  of  unrehearsed  enjoy- 
ment. 

Soon  the  music  sank  to  silence,  the  curt't.  rolled 
slowly  upward,  and  the  great  dialogue  begau,  the 
actors  on  the  stage  calling  to  the  silent  actors  beyond 
the  footlights,  each  answering  according  to  the 
measure  of  tragedy  or  comedy  that  life's  great  play 
had  brought  him.  Hired  hands  they  are  that  on  the 
stage   hold   the   mirror   before   us,   but   eager   eyes 


wf^maf.'-=i<. 


m^^^-m. 


LONDON'S   PREACHER. ACTOR    oi 

peer  into  t!ic  glass  to  find  the  reflection  of  their  own 
chequered  hves.  Nor  do  they  gaze  in  vain.  Com- 
monplace and  plain  though  they  affirm  lite  to  be, 
here  is  it  clothed  with  romantic  interest  as  the\-  gaze 
upon  it  from  without,  its  pathos  and  its  humour  cast- 
ing a  subtle  charm  they  have  failed  to  find  in  the 
reality.  What  they  have  deemed  life's  drudgery  all 
the  day  is  now  the  wizardry  of  the  night ;  and  life's 
old  story  takes  its  sweet  revenge  on  those  who  had 
yesterday  maligned  it  and  who  to-morrow  will  de- 
spise. 

"  Oh,  Wishart,  look,  look !  There  he  is— there  he 
is  at  last— that  tall  one  there—that  is  Mathias  !  " 

A  storm  of  welcome  rolled  through  the  Lyceum, 
the  scene  of  so  many  of  his  triumphs,  as  the  great 
actor  came  upon  the  stage,  a  panoply  of  power,  the 
unearned  gift  of  heaven,  about  him  as  he  came. 

With  intensifying  flame  the  play  burned  on.     It 
was   that   modern    passion    play,   "The  Bells,"    on 
which  the  mighty  actor  first  entered  like  a  conqueror 
into   the   great   citadel   of    his    fame,  through   the 
shadowy  gates  of  human  conscience.     Stephen  sat, 
sometimes  thrilling,  sometimes  trembling,  but  in  an 
unbroken  thrall  till  the  last  dread  scene  released  him. 
The  murder  amid  the  falling  snow,  the  remorse,  the 
exultation  over  the  ill-gotten  gain,  the  awful  stain 
upon  the  gold,  the  haunted  merriment,  the  ghostly 
interruption  of  the  accursed  bells,  the  skeleton  at  the 
feast,   the   handwriting   on    the   wall,  the   marriage 
dance  and  iu  awful  music  from   afar,  the   frightful 
waking  dream— all  these  blended  in  the  dreadsome 


i-i 
f1| 


:':>M,K!Sr>"'--T^-fS 


93 


THE    UNDERTOW 


messajje  which  the  great  actor's  eyes  and  hps  com- 
bined to  utter  with  such  tremendous  power  that  the 
shadow  of  the  Judgment  Day  seemed  to  have  al- 
ready fallen.  Stephen  felt  a  strange  tightening  about 
the  throat  as  tb.e  writhing  actur  struggled  for  es- 
cape ;  and  his  despairing  cry  : — "  Take  this  rope 
from  my  neck ;  take  this  rope  from  my  neck,  I  say," 
had  a  ghostly  echo  in  Stephen's  heart. 

The  actor's  choking  cry  was  soon  stifled  by  Lon- 
don's all  conquering  voice  as  Stephen  Wishart  and 
his  friend  wended  their  way  back  to  the  hotel  at 
which  the  latter  had  made  his  home  during  his  brief 
visit  to  the  mighty  city. 

They  walked  slowly  along  the  Strand,  enjoying 
its  myriad  sights  and  sounds,  mingling  with  the 
surging  throng;  for  the  theatres  everywhere  have 
turned  their  inmates  out,  and  the  streets  keep  Vanity 
Fair. 

"  'Wasn't  it  glorious  ?  "  Mather  said  at  length. 

"  Wonderful,"  answered  Stephen,  regaining  his 
friend  after  a  moment's  separation  in  the  crowd, 
"  let  us  go  back  by  the  Embankment ;  it's  so  much 
quieter  there.     This  street  leads  down  to  it." 

They  were  soon  upon  that  noble  river-walk,  its 
quietness  refreshing  them  like  music,  while  the 
hurrying  lights  on  the  murmuring  Thames  gleamed 
before  them. 

"  Yes,  it  was  really  wonderful,"  Stephen  renewed. 
"  I  never  heard  a  sermon  that  impressed  me  more," 
at  which  declaration  he  felt  some  measure  of  satis- 


I  i3>;,i*  -. .     'I 


^jm 


LONDON'S   PkEACHER. ACTOR    93 

faction—liku'  a  man  who  has  paid  a  debt  ••  An 
actor  might  do  almost  as  much  good  as  a  minister  " 
he  added,  ..  for  he  has  a  great  chance  to  appeal  to 
the  human  heart." 

"  Yes,  that  is,  if  he's  a  good  man  himself,"  liis 
companion  suggested.  -  By  the  way,  ,t  must  be 
terrible  to  be  a  minister  and  an  actor  at  the  same 
time.  I  mean,  a  minister  that  is  merely  actincr_ 
sometimes  all  their  lives  must  seem  like  one  Ion- 
play.  And  then  they  must  be  so  afraid  that  some 
one  will  see  behind  the  scenes.  When  I  heard  the 
great  preacher  at  the  Temple  last  Sunday,  I  fdt  that 

any  one  might  see  behind  and  they  would  find   it 

just  as  beautiful  -s  it  was  in  front." 

"  Whom  did   you  hear  ?  "   Stephen   asked,  a  hot 

flush  on  his  cheek.     Mather  mentioned  the  name  of 

one  of  London's,  one  of  the  world's  greatest  preachers 

whereupon  Stephen  expressed  his  purpose  to  hear 

him  at  the  earliest  opportunity. 

"It's   stro"     ■••    Mather   resumed,   "but,    do   you 

know,  that  ,    essed  me  to-night  just  the  same 

way  it  did  _     .1. 

"How?'  the  other. 

"  Like  a  sermon— there  seemed  to  be  an  awful 
lesson  running  all  through  it;  and  I  thought  of  a 
text  that  It  might  have  been  preached  from  " 

;•  What  was  it?"  Stephen  said,  deep  interest  in  his 
voice ;  for  his  own  mind,  too,  had  been  busy  with 
a  text. 

"  It's  that  one  in  the  Old  Testament."  said  Mad-.er, 
"  that  one  that  always  seems  to  sound  like  a  voice 


I 


H 


i^^c :  -'rf^T  vM^^msm^ummmi^ 


94 


7 HE    UXDERTOIV 


cominjj  from  somewhere  you  cin't  see  :— '  lie  sure 
your  sin  uiU  find  you  out.'  And  yet  I'm  sure  it 
wasn't  mentioned  all  throuf^h  the  play." 

"  Xo,  I  don't  believe  it  was,"  said  Stephen,  "  but  I 
thouj:jht  of  tile  very  same  text." 

"  Wasn't  that  stran<;e  .■'  But  then  I  suppose  you 
and  I  are  always  thinking  of  te.\ts.  And  I  believe 
that  was  why  they  listened  so  intently— the  people 
all  listened  as  if  they  were  in  church,  Stranj^e.  too, 
ssn't  it ;  for  I  suppose  they  went  there  for  pleasure. 
Don't  you  think  so  ?  " 

"Yes,  I  presume  they  did,'  Stephen  answered, 
•'  but  I  shouldn't  wonder  if  most  pi.ople  have  some- 
thing in  their  past  lives  that  makes  them  listen  to  a 

sermon  of  that  kind  whether  they  want  to  r.r  not 

it's  like  turning  back  to  some  page  with  a  stain  on 
it;  and  that  has  a  dreadful  fascination  for  nearly 
every  bod)'." 

"  Why  ?  "  asked  Mather  earnestly. 

"  I  don't  know— but  I  shouldn't  wonder  if  God 
has  something  to  do  with  it,"  Stephen  replied  after  a 
pause. 

In  silence  they  walked  on,  both  pondering  a  com- 
mon theme.     Mather  was  the  first  to  speak. 

"Well,  guess  we'll  have  to  say  good-bye,  old 
man  ;  here's  my  hotel— will  you  come  in  ?  No  ? 
Well,  perhaps  it  is  a  little  late.  When  may  I  hope 
to  see  you  again  ?  " 

"  I'm  hoping  we'll  meet  in  Edinburgh,"  replied 
Stephen  Wishart,  and,  making  their  farewells  again, 
each  went  his  separate  way. 


LONDON  S    PREACHEf^. ACTOR    95 

Stcplicn  had  sonc  but  a  little  distance  when  the  rich 
s.ght.  and  .uund,  of  one  ol  London',  -^reat  iio.-telrics 
bc-u.leu  hnu.  He  remarked  tlie  name,  recalled  tlu-t 
It  ua=  the  resort  of  some  tran.atlan'  chiends  of  his- 
and  stepped  uithin.  The  names  he  sou^d.t  uere  not 
upon  the  register,  and  he  turned  idly  to  look  about 
him. 

Then  he  passed  through  the  rotunda,  marvelling  at 
Its  j,.randeur.  weaving  .wilt  fiincie.  about  the  forms 
richly    cloaked,  that   floated   in   one    by    <,ne      The 
glance  they  cast  en  hnn  as  they  p.assed  .eemed  to 
c  1.11  lum  uuth  ,ts  haughtiness.    Vet  the  very  Havour  of 
the  place  enchanted  him.     This  was  hfe.  and  th-s  the 
v...on  of  the  world,  so  often  outlined  in  ambitious 
dieams  .     He  took  a  place  on  one  of  the  richly  up- 
holstered couches,  drinking  in  the  scene.     H.s  seat  w^ 
in  a  secluded  corner  and  he  could  see.  while  he  him- 
self was  almost  hidden. 

his"forT°rr'  'r"'  '''''■  '"'  ^'  ^'^^"S^*'  ^^^d  been 
tre  1     L  I'  ^""'-"S-'-^'ght  though  it  wa- .  so  lus- 

trc-lacking  when  compared   with  this  glittering  life 
and  Its  far-ofif  bright  horizon !  ^ 

.olr  T  '^'^^  S^"tlemen  emerged  from  the  lift,  ob- 

equiously  greeted  by  a  livened  '  ckey  who  led  the 

ay  to  the  curb,  his  whistle  ree        ng  the  while.     A 

Slamming  door  resounded,  the  pavement  rang  with 

before  iL' '  '"'  '''  '"'''^  '"^"'''  ^'^"'"S  a  coin 


'wm^^?^mm^'w^:^i^^m 


VIII 

The  METROPOLIS  hy  LAMPLIGHT 

STlJ'in:X  ro<c  hastily  from  hi.s  scat  and  met 
the  rcturnin.c,'  lackey  in  the  vestibule.     "  Can 
you  ^'ive  me  some  information  ?"  he  ventured. 
"  I'm  just  the  boy  that  can  do  that,  sir,"  said  the 
lackey,  scentin^^  another  tip.     "  I  just  Rax  e  some  val- 
uable information  to  them  gay  sports,"  he  remarked 
significantly. 

"  Where  do  you  suppose  they're  going  this  time  of 
night?"  Stei)hen  a.ked,  glad  to  find  a  directory 
available. 

The  lackey  turned  and  looked  at  him  contempla- 
tively.    Such  virgin  innocence  was  rare  in  his  exper- 
ience ;  for  he  was  a  Londoner,  and  carefully  versed. 
"  Putting  up  in  the  house  ?  "  he  queried 
"  No,"   answered   Stephen.     "  I'm    not  stopping 
here." 

"  Oh,"  said  his  companion,  looking  him  up  and 
down,  "  whore  do  you  stop  ?  " 

"  Up  near  the  British  Museum,"  answered  Stephen. 
"  At  a  lodging  house  in  Bedford  Square." 

^ "  That's  a  good  quiet  part— an  awful  good  part 
Nuthin'  to  hurt  \-ou  there.  'Tain't  far  '  ^m  the  Or- 
phanage, nuthcr-the  liloomsbury  Orpnanage,  you 
know."  he  added  with  a  grin. 

"  Mow'rc  you  guin'  h.nne  after  you  leave  here  ?  " 

96 


■iis^^vmm^m^^K^imm^sM:mMt^^^^s 


•The   METROPOLIS  by   L/iMPLlGHT        m; 

"  I  dont  exactly  knou/'  srid  Stcplicn,  j^lad  t-  be 
enlightened.  .'  The  Underground  wo  ..Jnt  take  nic 
there,  would  it  ?  " 

•■  Xu,  you  bet  it  won't,"  answered  the  guiu  ; 
"  won't  take  nobody  there— don't  gc.  it.selt.  Tui)- 
IK-ny  Tube  ain't  no  g.,od,  'cept  for  the  places  it  goes 
to  Itself,"  he  added  seriously  ;  ••  bus,  of  coip  -y„u 
could  take  a  bus,  but  it's  dangerous-all  M.rts  of  bad 
uns  chmbs  up  on  to  'em-s,t>  nght  d..un  uside  y.,u 
and  tells  you  where  they  live.,." 

'•  I  don't  want  a  bus."  Steplien  .uterrupted,  ••  don't 
tancy  them  this  hour  of  the  ni^dit." 

•|  Ain't  that  jest  what  I'm  t'ellin'  you  ?  I've  been 
in  'em— always  used  to  take  one  g.nn'  to  Sun-iay- 
school-but  never  take  'em  now—wasn't  good  for 
my  mside..  Then  there's  a  'ansom.  Vou  could  take 
one  of  'em— but  they're  so  onreasonable— expects 
you  to  pay  'cm.  you  see.  Never  takes  'em  myself— 
bad  for  your  outsides.  Terrible  bad  place.  Lunnon 
is,  every  way  you  take  it.     You  better  walk." 

"  I  gue-ss  I  had.  Then  you're  on  the  ground— and 
It  seem:  safer  than  too  far  below  it,  or  too  far  above  it 
Kesides,  I'll  enjoy  the  wa!k."_and  Stephen  smiled 
amiably.  "  Which  streets  ought  I  to  take  ?  "  he  in- 
terrogated, beginning  to  button  up  his  coat. 

The  director  meditated.  •<  Well,  you  could  go 
along  the  Strand " 

"  I  know  the  Strand,"  broke  in  his  lister  cr—"  went 
along  it  to  the  theatre  to-night." 

"You  could  go  along  the  Strand,"  pursued  the 
authority,  looking  across  the  rotunda  and  despising 


hi 


mm^^mi^^mmmmM^.^jmi^'^fmmMm^^^g^'^.m 


q8 


■THE    UNDERTOIV 


the  irrelevant  digression,  "  up  Chancery  Lane  to  'Ol- 
born— then  foUow  'Ulborn  to  Southampton  Row,  and 
that'll  take  you  there.'' 

"Say  that  again,"  said  Stephen,  unfamiliar  with 
navigation. 

"  Xo,  I  won't,"  rejoined  the  other  solemnly,  "  'tain't 
the  best  way  after  all — too  tame— you're  here  for 
sight.->eein',  ain't  you  ?  " 

"  Well,"  said  Stephen  reflectively,  "  of  course- 
that  is " 

"  Exactl}-,"  said  his  counsellor  and  friend,  "  that's 
what  I  said — you're  here  to  see  life— you  ain't  here 
for  your  health,  are  you  now  ?  " 
Stephen's  silence  was  enough. 
"  Exactly,"  brol.e  in  the  other—"  I  knowed  that 
the  minute  I  seen  you.  You  ain't  here  for  your 
health,  as  I  was  a  sajin' — you're  here  to  see  life. 
And  when  I  say  hfe,  I  mean  Life,  see?  What's 
your  business  when  you're  'ome  ?  " 

Stephen  hesitated  a  little.  "  Well,  you  see,  I'm  a 
—well,  really,  it's  kind  of  hard  to  say.  My  father's  a 
farmer.  I'm  a— I'm  a  kind  of  a  student.  But,  as  I 
was  saying  "—this  with  evident  relief—"  as  I  was 
saying,  or  going  to  say,  I  came  over  here  to  study- 
but  not  to  study  books  altogether,  you  sec.  You 
know  what  I  mean,"  he  concluded. 

"  Yes,  I  see ;  I  know  what  you  mean,"  the  other 
responded  in  a  confidential  tone  ;  "  you're  meanin' 
to  see  life— ain't  that  what  I  jest  told  you  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  amended  Stephen.  "  Life  in  its  broad 
sense — human  nature,  you  know." 


^^Ji^>i<-'M  '%\ 


■The  METROPOLIS  by   LAMPLIGHT       99 

"  Exactly,"  approved  the  other,  evidently  well 
pleased  to  find  that  after  all  their  minds  had  but  a 
single  thought.  ■.  Exactly  !  And  there  ain't  no  life 
in  Its  broad  sense  on  Chancery  Lane— nor  any 
human  nature,  nuther— not  the  kind  you're  lookin" 
for." 

"  Of  course,  it's  dark,"  Stephen  suggested  ;  "  one 
way  would  be  about  as  good  as  another  at  nitriit  I 
should  think."  ' 

"  That's  jest  where  you're  wrong,"  said  his  .sa- 
gacious friend-',  there  ain't  no  real  human  nature 
nowhere  till  it's  dark-certainly  not  in  its  broad  sense 
—but  there  ain't  none  on  Char.cery  Lane  no  time. 
\  our  best  way  home  is  Piccadilly—there  ain't  no 
spot  in  Lunnon  where  there's  so  much  human  nature 
in  Its  broad  sense-thafs  what  you  said  you  was 
after_as  you'll  get  in  Piccadilly.  There  ain't  no 
place  can  tetch  it,"  he  affirmed  fervently,  after  due 
reflection. 

It  did  not  take  the  adept  long  to  instruct  the  novice 
hou-  to  find  the  way.  Such  bearings  are  easily 
taken;  for  our  first  parents,  pathfinders  they, 
sketched  that  rough  chart  of  which  their  every  de- 
scendant has  a  co^  y. 

Following  which,  amplified  as  it  is  by  tie  triumphs 
ot  such  modern  discoverers  as  the  one  he  had  just 
left  behind,  Stephen  was  soon  walking  up  Northum- 
berland Avenue.  In  a  moment  his  senses  were 
thrilled,  and  indeed  almost  overwhelmed,  by  this 
planet's  central  place,  its  mightiest  focus.  Trafalgar 
Square,  whose  glowing  vastness  unfolded  itself  slowly 


i  X. 


I'i 


lOO 


•THE    UNDERTOIV 


on  his  sight.  He  had  seen  the  mighty  Square  be- 
fore ;  but  not  when  the  mystic  night,  retreating  before 
a  brighter  hght  than  marlvcd  the  day,  had  invested  it 
with  significance  and  beauty.  Flashing  hansoms  and 
ponderous  carriages  still  gleamed  here  and  there; 
varied  human  currents  flowed  swiftly  in  and  out  of 
this  greatest  eddy  in  the  world  ;  the  lion  faces  looked 
out  upon  the  human  tide  with  a  tranquil  patience 
that  well  became  such  sentinels  as  ha\c  the  centuries 
before  them  ;  while  above  it  all,  in  inmiortal  silence, 
brooded  the  mighty  hero's  face,  the  victor's  kingdom 
his  forever. 

The  conquered  and  overthrown  were  also  there- 
in ragged  homelessness  they  wandered  aimlessly  be- 
neath, their  battle  still  unfinished  ;  while,  sometimes 
idly  sauntering,  somctin.es  swiftly  hurrying  on  imag- 
inary errand,  the  despairing  wrecks  of  womanhood 
could  be  seen,  their  skirts  fluttering  in  the  chilly 
wind. 

Stephen  looked  upon  the  wondrous  picture,  the 
moral  stimulus  of  the  uplifted  Conqueror  entering  his 
soul ;  upward  he  gazed  at  the  serenity  that  was  dimly 
visible  above  ;  and  the  world-flung  message  of  the 
great  soldier  thrilled  his  heart. 

Then  he  cast  his  eyes  earthward  again  and  marked 
the  stains  of  sin  and  sorrow  upon  the  mighty 
canvas. 

A  broken  man  of  sixty,  having  noticed  his  upward 
look,  approached  him  with  the  mendicant's  appeal  of 
which  he  was  a  ma?:er. 

"  My  grandfather  held  Nelson  in  his  arms  when  he 


~-^*!n:?'T 


The  METROPOLIS  hy   LAMPLIGHT 


lOI 


was  shot,"  lie  averred  at  last,  after  several  le^<  ro- 
mantic facts  had  been  recited.  "An'  he  could  tell 
you  his  last  words,"  he  added  as  conclusive  evidence  • 
for  the  poor  creature  was  not  without  poetic  imagi- 
nation, which  plain  living  is  supposed  to  foster. 

Up  Pall  .Mall  he  walked,  past  its  ^lowin-  cli;bs  and 
kindled  palaces  ;  and  soon  the  risin-  street  brou-ht 
him  to  the  Mecca  which  the  fervid  lackey  had  bidden 
him  farewell  in  bicssin-  It  broke  upon  him  in  a 
crash  of  light.  Leicester  Square  stretched  before 
him  hke  a  lane  of  constellations  ;  [;lou  in-  crescents 
and  arcs  and  squares  poured  down  their  lu'^trous 
melody.  The  Spatenberg,  the  Trocadero,  the 
IMonico,  the  Criterion,  ail  turned  their  glowin-  faces 
toward  the  throng,  plying  their  radiant  rivalry  of 
fascination  and  appeal. 

In  this  magnetic  centre.  Regent  Street  and  all  its 
lesser  brethren  found  their  rest  at  last,  pouring  their 
burdens  into  its  willing  bosom,  as  streams  unload 
their  waters  in  the  sea. 

Blessed  and  blessing  in  its  emblem,  a  fountain 
claimed  the  very  centre  as  its  own.  its  rippling  waters 
competing  ,n  modest  hopefulness  with  the  clan-incr 
babel  of  the  myriad  voices  that  promised  refreshmen't 
to  the  weary.  For  sedatives  to  everj.  passion 
draughts  for  every  thirst,  breads  for  every  hun-er' 
are  offered  here.  But  the  untiring  fountain,  bearing 
the  name  of  the  noble  dead  and  mindful  of  the  uni- 
versal thirst,  still  called  to  all  to  partake  freely  of  its 
treasure,  forsaking  alien  springs. 

Stephen  threaded  his  way  a^'cross  the  street,  taking 


i.  ■  0 


HP 


102 


THE    UNDERTOIV 


his  position  beneath  the  Swan  at  the  apex  of  the  tri- 
angle whose  head  it  marks. 

Looking;  about  him,  he  remarked  a  constant  stream 
of  wayfarers—mostly  women,  he  noted  wonderin,gly. 
Round  and  round  they  floated,  reappearing  at  started 
intervals,  till  he  became  sure  that  the  same  faces  were 
in  evidence  again  and  again.  I  le  was  perplexed  ; 
for  the  hour  was  late  and  the  night  not  particularly 
genial.  He  moved  along  the  street  from  which  the 
Circus  takes  its  name,  crossed  to  the  other  side,  and 
stood  gazing  back  towards  the  spot  he  had  deserted. 


i 


I 


5 


IX 

^     PEARL     of    PRICE 

TIIH  significant  procession  still  suam  before 
li'm.     R.clil)-  robed,  with  fla.Inn^^  diamond, 
and   gleaming  pendants,  the  beautiful  pag- 
eantry    passed    by.    its    participant.,    casting    arcla 
glaiices  slacking  as  they  might  their  mincing  Jace 

Stephens  hrst  impression  had  been  one  of  distinct 
admiration  for  what  appeared  to  be  beauty,  richly 
decked.  J^ut  It  was  not  long  till  the  painted  perjury 
broke  upon  him-and  his  spirit  filled  with  loathing 
Hi.  thought  flew  to  his  mother-for  she  too  was  oi 
womankind,  as  were  most  of  tnese ;  and  the  vision  of 

punty  of  the  grave  seemed  to  bathe  his  soul 

He  thought  of  Bessie,  too ;  and  her  image  recalled 
he  ragrance  of  that  far-off  fringe  of  woods  and  t  le 
wee^^  cisterns   of  the  evening  air.     But  it  recalled 

^^0.  the  flame  that  had  threatened  them  bot  -  nd 

hs  fluttering  fancy  found  again  its  shelter  by  the  side 

of  her  who  bore  him. 

An?„o";"1  '°  '°°'  '^""  "P°"  ^he  siren  throng. 
And,  portentous  m  the  telling-for  a  mans  foes  are 
they  of  his  own  household,  and  the   heart's   great 
peril  IS  m  Its  undertow-they  did  not  seem  so  dread 
some  as  belore. 

103 


I04 


THE    UNDER701V 


'■I 

i.4 


.1 


h 


.1 


j  ' 


But  Stephen  was  by  no  means  numb  to  the  mem- 
ory of  a  moment  gone;  and  he  checked  hi>  growing 
concihation  with  a  word.  Whicli  word  was  that  inv 
mortal  name,  the  mystic  friend,  in  every  age,  of  the 
youth  who  is  far  from  home,  casting  out  devils  with 
its  love-bright  sound.  Nor  was  the  struggle  hard. 
\'ermilIion  vice  is  nauseous  to  the  soul— and  drapery 
is  the  dread  device  of  the  Prince  of  the  Pow  cr  of  the 
Air. 

"  Pll  go  home,"  he  thought;  and  he  started  across 
the  street. 

Then  he  looked  back,  as  Christian  turned  his  gaze 
upon  the  city  of  destruction,  contempt  gathering  as 
he  looked. 

"  How  shall  I  get  back  to  Bedford  Square?"  he 
mused;  for  the  servitors  additional  directions  had 
long  since  taken  *hght.  Ah,  me !  If  informants 
such  as  he  could  but  point  the  further  paths  ! 

He  is  still  standing  undecided  on  the  pavement, 
when  a  cabman  draws  in  to  its  edge  and  ca.^ts  a  line! 

"  'Ave  a  little  drive  about,  sir  ?  'Orse  nice  and 
fresh  ;  'aven't  'ad  but  three  fares  the  whole  bloomin' 
day,"  he  volunteered  in  a  pathetic  voice. 

"Drive  where?"  said  Stephen.  '<  I  want  to  <-o 
home." 

"  Oh.  All  right,  sir;  Pll  dri,;e  you  'ome— only  I 
thought  as  'ow  you  might  like  to  drive  about  a  bit 
an'  see  summat  of  the  town." 

"I  understand,"  answered  Stephen— "  it's  pretty 
late." 

"  Yes,  sir,  it  is— that's  wot  I  meant,  sir— 'tain't  no 


y?^'*'':';^:'^' 


-4   PEMRL   of  PRICE 


"»e  K„.„    „.,„  they're -arvin' afternoon  ,ca_no„.  ;- 
U.e.,v.hoare,     Where  d„  j-ou  „,,a„  ? - 

•I.^re  „f  an  h         ,V  "  a  d     ""r"  T''™'^"  """" 

heard  or  Wh.techapel.     Wasrt  U  at     ,        ?    "'"•■" 
imirder,  „ere?"  "^'" '"'«  where  the  awful 

so™e..,.:„:irHa:,t-L';::::,::-V""'^ 

hii  hoperatin'  room  "  t.'-"''^'"'-"  Iil.e»  to  see 

"  Well '',Vf  ■'■■"■'"''•'='' '•■'^  ^'"'>'-"- 

"">,   o   me.    Turriblc  iv  ckit  place—but  I'll  r  ,  t. 
you  back  right  as  a  trivet,     Keve    ad  no  ,         f 
yet.     My  missus  has  a  hunele  I/the  ,";  "" t"! 

last  was  intimated  with  the  air  nf  ,  ^'^ 

co„«abu,         .,----  >.^^ 

An  uncle  on  what ?  '•  repeated  Stephen. 

kto °"  'HetT  plr^tt'^-'r  '°r  ^°"''  ^O" 
your  knees  sir     I  .  ""  ""^  ™S  fotnti 

Step  e„  'tL"-:ri:'s">"''"'":  =°°'  --^"^  ^"' 
and  danLlhrnle  T'  '°"f  "'"'  "  '""''  "'  ^^ 
never  known  5^     U  r."  """"°"  '''^  ''^<' 


alonjj 


io6 


THE    Uh'DERTO^ 


I  2! 
I  i 


The  stately  steeple  of   St.  Rlartin's-in-lhe-Fields 
broke  into  melody  as  he  pai^scd,  its  sweet  chime  float- 
ing down  to  him  through  the  midnight  air,  pure  and 
other-worldly  as  the  song  of  herald  angels  long  ago. 
Stephen  drank  in  the  delicious  notes  his  mind  in- 
stinctively turning  to  that  of  which  they  spoke.     He 
wondered  what  church  it  was.  and  who  might  be  its 
minister.     "  I  should  love  to  be  a  London  minister," 
thought  Stephen ;  "  how  splendid  it  must  be,  in  this 
great  city,  to  be  a  soldier  fighting  against  the  vice 
and  sin  that  abound  on  every  hand.     'Twould  call 
out  the  very  best  that's  in  a  man,"  he  mused,  con- 
trasting with  this  the  poor  stimulus  of  some  torpid 
country  parish.     15ut  he  would  endeavour,  he  thought, 
to  carry  to  his  field  of  labour,  wherever  it  might  be, 
the  inspiration  he  would  surely  gather  from  this  great 
human  c  :can.     And  it  is  wise,  he  further  thought,  to 
see  it  in  all  its  phases— the  dark  as  well  as  the  light. 
For  what  is   more  useless  than  an  unsophisticated 
minister,  one  who  has  never  seen  the  shady  side,  and 
knows  nothing  of  the  dark  temptations  against  which 
some  people  have  to  fight  ?     How  could  a  man  f.t- 
tingly    rebuke    sin,  if  he  had   never  seen   it?     Mr. 
Shearer,  for  instance,  their  minister  at  home— sup- 
pose he  should  be  called  to  a  church  where  young 
men  were  wont  to  congregate,  how  could  his  sheltered 
hfe  and  innocent  inexperience  render  him  fit  tc  point 
out  the  pitfalls,  or  to  denounce  the  sins,  that  beset  the 
feet,  and  attack  the  hearts,  of  youth  ? 

It  did  not  occur  to  him — for  the  carriage  wheels 
were  flying  fast  down  Fleet  Street's  easy  slope— that 


^  PEARL  of  PRICE 


l-ounds  never  heard  beroc      N-o   ,,?;■"''  "'  '""'^ 
a  minister  surely  „,„.,[,:       ,  "■'  '=""'  "''« 

Lamb  .vitbout  LT  or  tr^"°","'  "'•^'  "  "^»  ^ 
stainful  lip,  have tve  ,1  '"'  ,'  "'""  '""  ^•'"•^'  •''^ 
of  .l.e  human  hear,  '^  ""  ""*'-■"'  "— K^ 

gathering  „„,"'   '  r;.  ''';";"""  ,""-^-  aud   i„   all 

"obie.,.;a„epou^;„' .,",;;  7  ^"r "'  '•""■'•'"^•^ 

"^  fro„.„  „ja,i  :„"h tie  z:;;  "r  ■"  ^^- '"-«'■ 
or^n,i„,ied:f,;t:L"rr™r--^-'- 

substitutes  forpa,e.T    ,"  "■  ""■■  P™t""l">? 

^'..Wren,  the  ^^Tj^Z  "'^^  °'  "^'^"^'"^'^ 
drunk-en  lau^,ter     all  «         'J  J^'"'  "«  ""^l"-  of 
'-d  they  had  r  ~    d     'S        "'"  *^  '"'«'"''- 
groups  of  .„.„  or  h    etchtT""  P'"""  "'""  "' 
all  equal.,  el.gible  to  asSLr'"'"""  '°  "'  ""'  ""'^^• 

be«er,:f„ai;ier;,rt"'^  "-^^  ^ = -'^■'  -^■ 

The  li„le  .,ndt'''ro  :  CTarr-'r^'^-'- 
denly  upUfted  :_..  Turrlhl,.  ',"="  ''=ad  ,s  sud- 

'o»-s  has  catched  I" "e     i",'    "",•  ^'"-'"'^  "^  '"^•'- 
ho„easy_ni  look  arter  you  ~        °  "'  ""■•  ""■''  ■"= 


yi 


Qik'  i'M^. 


io8 


•THE    UNDERJOIV 


The  window  closes  ajjain,  Stephen  pccrinrj  cau- 
tiously out  to  £ce  the  desperadoes.  Everything 
seems  (juief  cnoujrh.  An  unhappy  child  of  foiiiteen 
or  so  is  helping'  ler  mother  home,  the  latter  carrying 
a  can  as  caret uiiy  as  her  condition  will  permit.  IJut 
Stephen  can  discern  no  peril  there. 

Ihey  pass  into  another  street,  kindred  to  the  one 
they  iiave  left  behind.  Suddenly  the  window  jjoes 
up  again  :— "  This  'ercs  what  they  call  '  The  Blo.xly 
'Ole,'  sir— 'orful  place,  sir.  That  'ere  last  one  I 
showed  you  was  a  little  Sunday-school,  sir,  alonjjside 
o'  this.  That's  halrij;ht,  sir— don't  be  honeasy.  I've 
got  my  heyc  hout  for  'em,  sir—we'll  soon  be  hout 
of  it." 

Stephen  looked  eagerly  again,  this  time  leaning 
forward  a  little,  his  fears  less  vivid  than  before.  He 
sees  nothing  but  an  almost  deserted  street,  sunk  in 
the  same  sodden  wret  'edness  as  the  other ;  but  with 
no  signs  of  recent  or  impending  slaughter. 

They  have  not  ^-jne  far  when  he  hears  the  window 
lifted  again;  and  a  sepulchral  voice  calls  down:— 
"  Set  in  the  middle  o'  the  seat,  sir,  right  in  the  middle 
—that's  it— it's  the  safest  place  there.  See  how  that 
'orse's  ears  is  cocked,  an'  *is  tail  agoin'  of  itself,  sir? 
That's  halright,  sir,  I'll  look  arter  you,  sir.  Don't  be 
honeasy— only  my  missus'  huncle  ver>'  near  shot  ten 
men  right  'ere,  wonst,  sir." 

This  time  Stephen  thrust  his  head  boldly  out,  even 
venturing  to  disturb  the  equilibrium  on  which  so 
much  depended.  A  man  was  plodding  unsteadily 
along  the  street,  carrying  in  his  arms  a  spaniel  dog ; 


>-T*"»?^ 


^  I'EAHL  of  PRICE 


sh.rf  -. .  •    .  ^         \\allyablc.s   iriMi  c   your 

sir.     1  h.t  .  halnght-dop't  be  honeasy  '  " 

fn  V  \  ""'"  ^"-'P^'""  ^^'^  fi"^'"^'  't  easy  enouc^h 
to  obey  the  fam.liar  .J„,onit.on,  and.  t.rinn-  of  the 
expenence  i.e  abruptly  ordered  the  cabn^an'to  dr  e 
him  home  by  .ay  of  Holborn.  The  man  .as  no  h- 
»ng  loath,  and  soon  Stephen  was  looking  out  upon  a 
re..on  much  superior  to  that  which  the  dri^  r^Ta" 
had  peopled  with  its  divers  perils  ^n,n  i  7 
ha„.o„,  ,        ,p ,        pavc.oCt!r;:l;  ! 

preselrafet';,:!:  ™-™'  ''  '"^"^  '"^  "^ 

"  ^°'',  ='''"■'  "ind  a  man  'avin'  a  beer   sir?"  I,e 
enqu.red  earnestly.     ..  This  'eres  a  place '„   a  's  al 
ways  hopen  ,f  y„„  k„„„,  •„„  ,„        ^^f^  """^  al- 

ispf'as'hL  d!fr  °^JT''°-' *-Bh  rigid  .ectotal- 
i^m  was  Ills  doctnne  and  his  rule 

it  "  h?.  "^''  •'  .  ''"'  '  ^''"'^  >""''^  ^^  b*^"-  -ithout 
",    ne  answered.  "'vjui 

"That's  halright,"  rejoined  the  cabby;  -used  to 


>"^r     M<i'9inmK'iR-MmMFsm 


liO 


THE    US  DERI  Oh' 


belong  to  the  Band  of  'Ope  myself.  But  a  man 
knoas  'is  own  insidcs  best,  sir;  and  I've  'ad  a  hawful 
stiain.  Look  at  that  'orses  'ead  and  tail,  sir—a  man 
takes  'is  life  in  "is  'and,  when  he  drives  that  "crc  last 
street,  he  do." 

"  It  :.as  kind  of  you,"  said  Stephen,  thinking  he 
should  make  some  acknowledgment  to  the  hero. 

"  I  1  ver  does  it,  only  for  Hamericans,"  the  cabby 
went  (  and  they  alwajs  gives  me  the  price  of  a 
beer,  sir_al..'ays  docs  it  'andsome,  too,  sir." 

"  Oh,  I  see,"  said  Stephen. 

"  Ves,  sir."  agreed  the  pilot.  Wherewith  the  former 
put  his  hand  in  his  pocket,  extracting  a  threepenny 
bit  w  hich  he  handed  to  the  other.  The  other  looked 
slightly  disappointed. 

"  Vou  won't  be  long,"  called  Stephen,  as  the  man 
turned  towards  a  lane. 

"  ^'o,  .ir,"  replied  the  cabman  in  a  dejected  voice; 
"I  shan't  be  long,  sir.  You  seen  wot  you  guv  me! 
sir  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Stephfn. 

"  I  seen  it.  too,"  saii.  the  cabman,  "  and  I  shan't  be 
long,  sir— don't  be  honea  y." 

Thus  le.-.  alone.  Stephen  looked  about  him  at  the 
almost  silent  street.  Cramped  with  long  sitting,  and 
weary  with  the  intentness  of  his  vigil,  he  stepped 
down  from  the  hansom  to  the  pavement,  moving 
about  for  the  relief  of  his  tired  limb.. 

Suddenly  a  woman's  figure  glided  around  t.  e 
corner  of  an  adjacent  street  and  began  moving  ^lowly 
toward  him.     Stephen  stared  at  her;  and  she  came 


n 


^   PEARL   of  PRICE 


III 

on.  till  she  was  almost  opposite     Tlion  ^h^  ^ 
and  turned  her  face  toward  lus  "  ^'"''"''^ 

"Could  you  help  me.  sir?"  she  began    ,  a  trem 
bhn,^vo.ce.     ..  r.  an  alo„e-.md  helpLs-aJ.dT; 

^_^\VhatV.said  Stephen,  ^canning  the  face  before 

that  stamp,  her  wo^::..r.:Xr'^"^ 
b..phen  was  still   ga.ing  i„to  the  pleading  cw 

th-.  smce  eleven  o'clock  this  mornin.  "      '"'  '"^' 

the^ce'ttT."'"'  'P°'"  '""  ^^"^^^  --  --thy  of 
tne  lace  that  was  now  timidly  turned  aw-iv      <f»  , 

was  stil!  intent  upon  his  scrutiny  "^^     ^''P'^'"'" 

years.     T L  fat    wa    1    '      ""^^  ''■^'"^^'>'  ^''''^"  ^^-^ 
the   huni  r  w^     ",  "h"""''  '"'  "°^  P-^'^ed-and 

alone.     Fo    h ^f.     'b^'^^ "''  ""'  "'   ""'  "^"^ 
and   1  WH  ?        ''  ^^"^  ''^"'  of  a  tender  spirit 

and  a  r,ch  sp.ntua!  beauty  rested  on  it      The  ve  v 

perhaps   but  due  to  unstained  innocence  seemed  to 
come    from    the   half-parced.    trembling   H^shI; 


^?^      '^*sElvl 


s^Tv'Aia*' 


112 


THE    UNDERTOIV 


^;S 


■n 


i''\ 


mouth  was  sifjnificant  of  purity,  her  eyes  soft  and 
docile.  \'et,  as  a  h.^ht  fell  upon  them,  something  of 
sorrow  seemed  to  burn  within,  as  if  some  ^^reat  sur- 
prise had  touched  their  laughter  with  eternal  serious- 
ness. 

lier  neck  was  surrounded  by  a  strong  slender 
chain  of  steel— and  Stephen  noted  in  amazement  that 
this  ended  in  a  tiny  brazen  cross,  almost  hidden  by  a 
piece  of  faded  lace. 

"  Where  do  you  hve?  "  asked  Stephen. 
"  Nobody  cares  where    I    hve— don't   let's  speak 
about  that,"  she  retorted  quickly ; "  won't  you  help 
me  a  little— just  a  very  little  ?     I'm  so  unhappy." 

"  How  do  you  come  to  ha\e  that  cross  there  ?  " 
he  asked  ;  "  won't  you  tcU  me  why  ?  " 

The  girl  looked  down  at  it,  then  lifted  her  eyes 
quickly,  and  answered :—"  It  would  be  hard  forme 
to  tell  you— I've  not  told  anybody  yet ;  "  and  Stephen 
could  not  but  notice  a  tremour  in  her  voice  that 
spnkc  of  an  emotion  he  was  at  a  loss  to  under- 
stand. 

At  this  juncture  they  were  interrupted  by  the 
returning  cabman,  his  gait  suggesting  that  he  had 
invested  the  threepenny  bit  to  fine  advantage. 

"  I  met  an  old  pard  in  there,"  he  explained,  "  a 
pard  I  'adn't  seen  since  Dizzy  died,"  his  mind  revert- 
ing to  the  great  obsequies  they  had  observed  to- 
gether. 

"  Lord  !     You've   run   arrost   one   yourself !  "  he 
exclaimed,  liis  eye  falling  on  the  girl. 
"  I've  never  met  this  lady  before,"  Stephen  made 


I 


A  PEARL   of  PRICE  ,,3 

haste  to  avow.  '•  J5ut  I'm  not  tjoing  farther  with 
you,  lie  continued,  "  I'm  not  gouvy  on— I  liavc— 
that  i.s,  I've  a  dut)-  to  attend  to,"  he  concluded,  not 
without  cnibarrcibsment. 

Mlalri-ht,  I  understand  you,  sir."  replied  the 
cabby  ^rravely.  -  Hawlul  glad  I  was  of  'dp  to  a 
gent,  a-do.n'  of  his  dooty,"  The  significance  of  his 
voice  could  not  be  misunderstood. 

"  I  would  have  you  know.  sir.  I'm  a  minister," 
btephen  affirmed  in  a  heightened  tone—"  I've  a  duty 
to  perform — here." 

"  Oh,  Lord  !  "  broke  out  the  cabman  ;  «  Jerry  do 
you  hear  that  ?  "  he  cried,  turning  toward  the  horse 
and  snatching  the  light  blanket  from  its  back. 

"How  much  do  I  owe  you?"  Stephen  asked 
sternly ;  "  Ml  settle  with  you  now." 

"  x\o  time  like  the  present."  replied  the  cabby 
"  But  I  does  ate  to  take  five  bob  off  a  poor  parson- 
it   urts  me  more  nor  you." 

"  Five  what  ? "  said  Stephen,  confused  by  the 
nomenclature. 

"  Five  bob  !  Five  shillin'—IVc  hearned  it,  too." 
"  Oh,  five  shillings,  you  mean,  do  you  ?  "  said  his 
now  enlightened  fare;  "all  right,"  and  Stephen  drew 
from  his  pocket  the  wallet  that  contained  his  father's 
noble  gift,  now  converted  into  i5ank  of  luigland 
notes.  ..  I've  got  some  change  here  somewhere."  he 
muttered,  fumbling  among  the  rustling  bills. 

"  The  deacons  must  ',"'  paid  you  up  the  salary  just 
afore  you  told  'em  bye-bye,"  suggested  the  cabman, 
denoting  the  purse  with  one  eye.  the  other  reserved 


114 


,1 


THE    UNDERTOH^ 


for  a  fittinjj  operation  toward  the  fjirl.  "  Must 
be  hawful  devoted  to  their  pastor,"  he  added,  repeating 
the  aforesaid  ocular  oijeration. 

"  Here  it  is,"  s^-.id  the  passen<;er  at  last.  "'  That's 
five — isn't  that  ri^ht  ?  " 

•' IIairi<;ht;  thankee  sir— and  I'll  leave  you  to 
your  dooty.  Won't  be  preachin'  in  the  1  labbcy  next 
Sunday,  will  you.  sir  ?  "  which  was  too  near  the  hi^h 
water  mark  of  humour  to  permit  of  further  control. 
The  cabby  abandoned  himself  for  a  minute  to  the 
hilarity  he  felt  had  been  too  lont;  del.'veil ;  and  noth- 
inj^  but  the  honest}-  of  Stephen's  purpose  could  have 
saved  Stephen  from  its  sting. 


^1  i 


^ 


ITS  CASKET  for  A   NIGHT 

AS  StL'pIicn  turncu  to  the  ^irl  beside  him,  the 
louk  with  which  he  re^^•lrcied  lier  was  nut 
without  genuine  pity.  He  was  interested, 
moreover,  from  the  standpoint  of  his  profession. 
Here  is  tlie  first  fruit  of  my  search,  he  lhou.t;ht  ;  and 
here  a  rr.jldc!  )pportunity  to  uphft  the  fallen,  joining; 
in  tiiis  far-pitcheil  battle  a^'ainst  London's  sin  and 
row.  I  le  even  thout;ht  of  the  rich  effectiveness  of 
such  an  incitlent,  used  as  an  illustration  in  some  ser- 
mon yet  unborn.  I-"or  no  theme  is  so  enthralling;  as 
that  of  the  prodij^al,  whom  preachers  so  often  seek 
afield,  going  forth  from  Xewcastle  in  their  search  for 
coals. 

"  Where  can  wc  get  something  to  cat  ?  "  he  asked 
as  ho  turned  to  her.     "  I  will  go  with  you." 

"  I  noticed  a  place  one  street  over  from  here,"  the 
girl  re[)lied,  her  thought  making  a  quick  review 
that  only  hunger  could  command,  "  and  I  fancy  it's 
open  all  night.  We  could  go  back  there.  But  why 
do  you  go  too  ?  " 

"  I  will  tell  you  later,"  Stephen  replied.  "  Let  us 
go  at  once." 

They  retraced  their  steps,  Stephen  trusting  himself 
to  the  guidance  of  the  girl.  She  walked  with  uncon- 
scious  haste;   for  a  pathetic  stmuilus  urged  her  on. 

"5 


116 


THE    UNDERTOIV 


^\\ 


M  i 


l\ 


He  couki  not  l)iit  mark  the  plaiiitivv  candour  of  her 
ca.t;cr  pace;  a.ul  pity  ijatlicral  in  Ins  heart.  I  [er 
carria-e  ua.  erect  ami  -racerul.  her  liair,  di^heveleil 
somevvliat.  slioued  -olden  and  uavy  in  tlie  uncertain 
li^ht.  the  t;ilken  strands  wanderin-  over  ear  and 
clieek-  and  neck,  all  i)lendin-  in  a  a.ntuu:  olstran-ely 
delicate  loveliness  and  charm. 

"  Aren-t  you  ashamed  too  ?  "  The  words  broke  in 
i:p  m  his  silent  observations. 

"Ashamed?  Ashamed  of  what?"  asked  her 
companion,  rcmarkin-  a.Qain  the  refinement  of  her 
voice,  "  ashamed  of  what  ?  " 

'•  \^'ell,  what  made  you  tell  the  cabby  such  a 
story  ?  "  the  ^^{r\  returned. 

Steplicn  started.  I  le  had  forgotten.  "  IMe !  A 
story  to  the  cabman  !  "  he  exclaimed.  "  I  don't  know 
what  you  mean— I  didn't  tell  him  any  story." 

"  No."  she  amended,  •<  it  wasn't  exactly  a  story- 
it  was  a  whopper " 

"What  do  you  mean  ?  "  Stephen  renewed,  a  little 
testily  ;  for  philanthropy  knows  its  ri<;hts. 

"  Vou  told  him  you  were  a  preaciier— why  didn't 

you  tell  him  somethiui,'  he'd  believe Here  we 

are— that's  the  place  I  saw— and  there's  a  li-ht  in  it 
yet,"  she  concluded  rapidly,  the  moral  swallowed  up 
ot  the  material. 

They  pushed  back  the  already  half  opened  door 
and  entered  the  poor  refectory.  One  or  two  belated 
ones,  just  i)reparin-  to  depart,  were  concludinrr  their 
repast,  ekin-  out  the  scanty  fare  to  the  uttermost 
moment,     btephen  led  his  companion  to  a  table  in  a 


ns  CASKET  for  A  NIGHT  ,,7 
corner  ,.|  tin.-  ro.,ni  and  tlic  a,c;ilo  waiter  lia.l  s,u,n 
departed  u.tli  an  order  (or  a  !ar-e  double  steak,  a  six- 
pence from  Stephen's  hand  accounting'  lor  tlie  clieer- 
ful  speed  tliat  marked  lijs  exit. 

Stephen  was  still  Ihmkm^'  of  the  ^'irl's  last  words 
and  their  soli  imi)eachment. 

"  lUit  Im  just  wliat  I  said  I  was,"  he  resumed 
when  they  were  seated. 

The  other  l.joked  earnestly  at  him,  the  sweetness  of 
her  expre.Mon  in  this  clearer  li-dit  striking'  Stephen 
with  sur|)ri>i-. 

"  I  told  him  the  trutli,"  ur-ed  Stephen.  •'  \  told 
him  I  was  a  minister— and  I  am  Vou  needn't  smile 
— I  am  a  minister." 

The  face  that  looked  across  at  him  was  serious 
enourjh.  "  Do  you  know  I  believe  you— at  least  I 
almost  believe  you.  Arc  you  really  a  minister,  sure 
enouf^h  ?  "  she  enquired  earnestly. 

For  answer,  Stephen  drew  a  letter  from  his  pocket 
and  threw  it  down  before  her.  It  was  one  of  the 
few  that  had  been  entrusted  to  him  for  purposes  of 
introduction. 

"  '  Reverend  Stephen  Wishart,  M.  A.,'  "  the  girl 
read  aloud,  evidently  impressed. 

"  You  may  look  at  the  letter,"  said  Stephen  with  a 
glance  toward  it.  She  took  the  missive  out  and 
read  ,t  through.  It  was  to  a  Scottish  friend,  the 
credential  again  in  evidence. 

Then  she  restored  her  attention  to  the  envelope, 
reading  the  address  over  once  or  t-.  -ice.  "  <  M.  A. ' 
I  know  what  that  means,"  she  renected  presently. 


II.S 


THE    UNDERTOW 


1 


"  Do  you  ?  "  answered  Stephen  smiling'.  ••  What 
does  it  mean,  then  ?  " 

"■Master  ot  Arts.'"  tiie  -'il  respondeil  (luickly. 
SteplieM  wonilerin-  at  the  sound.  "Our  minister 
was  an  M.  A.,"  she  pursued,  Steplien's  e)es  wider 
tlian  l)el(ire. 

"  Vour    mnuster  !  "  lie    exclamied,   '-.\7mv,\    at  tlie 
Kill  and  trym-  to  reah/.e  the  place  and  method  ot 
their  nieetinj:;. 

"  ^'cs."  returned  tlie  other  ;  "  he  -ot  his  at  A!)er- 
deen— he  was  our  minislc.-  before  1  was  born,  lie 
:a)arried  my  father  and  mother."  ..he  concluded,  her 
lips  all  a  (juiver. 

"  Here's  the  waiter  at  last."  announced  Stephen, 
blithely  assistin-  in  the  distribution  of  the  homely 
di.shes.  He  dropped  a  fi)rk  beside  her  chair;  she 
stooped  to  recover  i<  and  he  slipped  a  portion  of  his 
order  on  to  her  pl.u..  Then  he  led  the  attack,  bid- 
din-;  his  companion  follow;  which  she  did  ri-^dit 
heartil\-,yet  with  a  modest}-  that  e.xplaineil  the  emb';u-- 
rassment  of  her  downcast  exes. 

She  hail  spread  upon  her  lap  a  dainty  handker- 
chief, si.rel)-  stained,  it  must  be  said— but  he  marked 
the  refinement  o\  the  action. 

He  was  wonderin,i,T  how  he  nii|;ht  best  renew  the 
conversation,  when  tiie  voice  of  the  other  suddenly 
relieved  him  of  that  necessity. 

"  That  :.vw  a  whopper  after  all."  she  said,  as  she 
looked  up.  the  eyes  s^-Iistcnin^^  throuj^h  the  dew. 

"  What  was  a  whopper  ?  What  have  you  discov- 
ered now  ?  " 


^i:^   i 


■-  i    ' 


^V 


'^.:^m. 


/■TS  CASKET  /or  A   N Kill  J        ,,9 

"  About  wl.at  >ou  toUJ  ll,c  cbby.  \,,^  ,.,,j  y„u 
were  a  .n,M,,stcr_a..d  yuu  didnt  a.k  a  \A^.Mnv,  "  ,hc 
cl)ar^'c(l. 

"1  a.kc-.l  it  in.Kic."  said  Stephen;  "  they'<i  tlunk 
you  were  .11  ,|  liKy  saw  you  a.k.n^^  ,1  i,,.,,  .„    .  „^,,^,^ 

^vay.      should  tinnk-th.n.;,!,   I  w..  never  ,„  a  place 
like  tins  before.      l!ut  nou  let  iiic  or 
— i'Hi    said     ycjur 


niuii^lLr    wa^ 


you 


> " 


)s^   (lUe-^tloil   yuu 

:i'»    M.   A.,   didn't 


';  ^•es,  I  said  lie  -<.t  it  ni  Aberdeen."  she  rephed 
seriously.  ' 

"Well  then,  what  chureh  does  he  belon-  to  > 
Uh.ch  >s  your  church?"  lor  the  vein  struck  Inn,  as 
forei^Mi  and  tascinating. 

"  Its  the  Church  of  Scotland,"  the  ^n\  answered 
promptly. 

"  Isn't  that  stran-e,  that's  mine.  too.     JU.t  how  do 
I  know  you  are  not  telhn^.  me  a  whopper,  as  you  call 
•t?     I-ct  me  see_I   can   tell   by  a   question.      .\ow 
ym.  tell  me  so,nethin^r_,,i,,^t  ,,„  ^hey  call  the  men 
III  the  session  ?     'Iheir  office.  I  mean  ?  " 

The  bi-  eyes  stared  at  lum  for  a  minute  ■_"  Oh 
you  mean  the  Kirk  Session_u  I.y.  they're  elders,  of' 
course.     My  father  was  one." 

"  Good,  very  ^^ood-now  I'm  ^.oin^  to  ask  just  one 
more  question."  pursued  her  examiner;  .-perhaps 
>t-s  a  httle  harder  than  the  other-how  doe^  the 
e.sI>ty-fourth  psalm  run  ?  That's  a  sure  s.,m),  if  you 
can  tell  that."  ^ 

She  pondered  a  moment :_"  I've  learned  them 
nearly  all_we  had  to  learn  them  on  Sundav  after- 


I 


-A 


;j 


1 20 


•THE    UNPl-kJOU' 


n<imis,"  she  nuiscci.     "  I   can't  just   remember  liow 
that  one  begins.     lUit  I  think"  it  lias  tliis  in  it: 


lii'hnM  llic  >,p:irto\v  finilctli  out 
All  house  wliiri  ill  to  risl  ' — 


I 

,'•1 


I  thonp:ht  of  it  to-nii;ht  when  I  was  walking 
arouiul.  "  ^he  aiKled  in  a  voice  he  cmiiKI  !)are!\-  hear, 
her  e>es  hidden  tVom  him  as  her  head  bnued  till  it 
rested  on  the  heavin-:;  bosom,  while  scarlet  clothed 
her  cheek  :_"  t)h.  sir,  m\  heart  is  broken."  she  cried 
at  length,  alter  a  brief  wild  stru;^,i;le  for  control.  "I 
don't  want  to  eat  any  more,"  she  sobbed,  the  tears  (low- 
ing  fast  now,  unstaiinchetl  by  the  poor  handkerchief 
she  had  lifted  from  her  lap.  "  Let  us  po  out,"  she 
sobbed,"  I  can't  stop  cryinj^ — and  that  man's  look- 
inj::  at  me  ;  "  which  verj-  feminine  complaint  was 
accompanied  by  a  furious  glance  at  the  petrified 
waiter,  transfixed  beside  his  green  baize  door. 

"  All  right,"  whispered  Stephen.  "  You  go  on — 
wait  for  me  at  the  door."  He  hurriedly  paid  his  bill, 
the  recovering  waiter  asking  innocently :  "  Is  your 
missis  sick,  sir?"  for  he  knew  they  were  not  of  the 
usual  class  he  was  wont  to  serve  at  that  hour. 

Stephen  made  some  unintelligible  answer,  moving 
quickly  toward  the  door  through  which  his  compan- 
ion had  disappeared  ;  but  she  was  nowhere  to  be 
seen,  and  Stephen's  heart  leaped  with  a  strange  eager- 
ness to  find  her.  He  called  out  some  word  of  gen- 
eral salutation — for  he  did  not  know  her  name. 
Answer  there  was  none.     Thea  he  ran  quickly  down 


•-C  '■■• 


/7.S-  CASKP.J  for   A    NlGllj        ,,, 

a  ncn-by  street,  f.ut  In,  s.an  1,  u,,,  unr.u.nlr,! 
K'a.in.i.u;  slowly.  Ik-  pcv.xd  ,„t,,  an  allry  .  an,l  the 
bri^'htly  iM.rnu,-  1,^|.,.  I,,„,l,,„-  ,,,,,,(  ,„,,,,,,,,„ 
'■^■vcal.,1  t,,  liun  ui.at  lie  k.irvv  at  o.ut  t-.  1„;  tliJ 
skirt  .,1  a  unnia.i'..  ,lres..  II„nyin;.:  I'-ru.n.l.  Vx 
f"Uii.I  t!ir  .:Mni,,ani..ii  <.|  l„s  l,uiiil,le  meal  seate-l  m„  a 
stc]).  still  M,l)!,,,i;r  violently. 

"  (i-  auay.  „1,.  ,,],,,, c   5;"   auay,"  she   ni..aiier|.  .-., 
Sti'jihcii  .[),)!;,■  to  her. 

"  I  W'-nl  -I   shan  t   leave  you  like  thi—u  here  ar.- 
you  1,'oniL;  to  sleej)  to-t)i;.;lit  ?  " 

"  I  .Iniit  knou."  she  sobbed.  "  I  don't  k.u.u-and 
It  doesM  t  inattei—ouly  pk-a.e  .t,'o  away." 

Sudd.nlya  shadow  darkened  the  entrance  tr.  the 
alley  and  a  burly  lorni  loomed  above  them. 

"Whafs  the  matter  here  ?"  and  the  policeman's 
V..ICC  w.Ls  stern—.,  have  to  move  out  of  tins,  and 
quick  about  it." 

_  The  -nl  leaped  quickly  to  her  feet.  "  .Sit  down  " 
Stephen  said  in  an  undertone  ;  -  stay  where  vou  are 
— I  want  to  .speak  to  liim." 

lie  n.otioned  the  ofticer  aside  and  a  few  moments 
sufhced  to  tell  the  story. 

•'  Likely  some  p<K)r  -irl  from  the  country.  '  the  po- 
iceman  ventured,  heart-tender  as  are  nearly  all  his 
kind  ;  ..  hkely  cnou-h  a  thorourrhly  innocent  .r,>i 
too,  '  he  pursued.  .•  No,  sir.  there's  no  hotel  just 
round  about  here.  I'll  tell  you  what  you  do.  There's 
an  Army  Home  on  Parrot  Strect-thcre's  a  dnnkmg 
fountam  three  minute^  this  side  of  it.  She  can  stay 
there  for  the  night— comfortable  enough,  too  " 


122 


7HE    UNDERTOIV 


"  Hut  won't  she  have  to  mix— i  moan,  aren't 
all "  Stephen  (jucried,  deprecatint^ly. 

"Oil,  no.  bless  you—no,  not  at  all.  Tliey've  beds 
there  up  to  six-pence— mebbe  a  shiUing.  Lots  of 
the  best  take  'em.  Vou  pay  il.  That'll  mean  a  bite 
of  breakfast,  too.  The  very  best  thin^'  you  can  ilo— 
try  and  jjet  her  to  go  there.     And  I'll  just  ^'o  on." 

"  How  shall  wc  get  there?"  ur-ed  Stephen,  anx- 
iously ;  ■•  I  don't  know  anythin-  of  the  locations 
here.  " 

"  Oh,  simple  enough.  See  that  light  there  ?  Well, 
go  down  to  that,  turn  to  the  right  for  two  squares^ 
then  turn  to  the  left,  and  it's  the  third  corner  on  the 
right— you'll  find  it  easy  enough.     Good-night,  sir." 

The  gust  of  anguish  seemed  to  have  subsided  when 
Stephen  returned  to  his  companion,  and  she  was  per- 
suaded without  serious  difficulty  to  follow  the  course 
commended  by  the  officer.  They  walked  on  in 
silence  for  a  lime. 

"  I  hope  to  see  you  again,"  Stephen  said  at  length  ; 
"  you're  to  tell  me  yet  where  your  home  is,  and  all 
about  everything  like  that,  you  know." 

No  answer  coming,  he  presently  renewed  — -"  Vou 
will  tell  me  all  about  it,  won't  j-ou  ?  " 

The  girl  looked  at  him  with  searching  eyes  ;— "  I'll 
tell  you  everything,  I  think,"  she  said  quietly' after  a 
moment.  ''  I  want  to  tell  you  everything." 
^  "  I  lere's  the  place.     I  guess  this  is  where  you  ring. 
Wait  a  minute— what  is  your  name  ?  " 

"  Hattie,"  she  answered. 

"  Hattie  who  ?  " 


ITS  C/ISKE7  for  A   NIGHT        i2y 

"Ilattic  Ilastic.  I  suppose  they  thoi.ght  ,t 
sounded  pictt)-  uhen  tliey  f;ave  it  to  me." 

"It  is  a  pretty  name— irul  I  want  to  see  you 
again.  And  you  may  expect  me  to  cunie  here  to- 
rn row  morninj;  about  ten  o'clock.  I'romi.e  .ne  you 
will  wait  till  1  come." 

Ifattie  H.i.tie  blu..hed;and  the  rosy  banner  was 
well  pleas.n.^r  to  Stephen',  eye  :  for  is  not  the  blush  of 
maidenhoud  the  si;;nal  that  Gods  sentinel,  .till  hold 
the  inner  fort? 

"Promise  me.  promise  me  ciuick.-here's  the  at- 
tendant cumin^r." 

The  -iri  .udJenly  raised  her  eyes,  swimmin-  in 
>c  light  as  they  were  ;  and  a  rich  aroma  di.tilled 
through  the  lips  that  spoke  :_.•  I  will  wait  for  you- 
oh,  God  ble^s  you,  .Mr.  \\i.hart_it  was  He  who  sent 
you  ;  It  was  my  mother's  God."  and  the  wonderful 
eyes,  radiant  with  tears,  looked  up  to  his  in  childlike 
trust  and  innocence,  the  man  quivering  with  emotion 
as  with  a  few  earnest  words  he  committed  his  nc^v- 
lound  charge  to  the  kindly  warder  who  now  stood 
before  them. 


XI 


H^ITTIF  A)i  J   Thr  C  O  M  M  A  N  P  F  R 

HAITI  K  I  lASTI  1.  was  aslud  n..  «,.u  >t,o!,s  by 
the  attciul.mt  at  tlu-  Army   ll.,nu-.     Ami 
VL-iy  clcMii  and  c..m|,,rtal)lc  ua>  the  little 
bed   to  ulncli  sh.-  ua^   -u.drd  by  the  knully  ,„atn>n 
called   trom  welcinc  .liiinber  t..  ilniv  ..1..,^  wdo-iuJ 
still.     'I  he  aiMit.neiit  uas  comparativeiv  small,  s.^mc 
ei-ht  or   ten   beds   bein- beside  her  own.     All  their 
inmates    were    evidently    lost    ,n    sleep— that    truest 
Jnend  ot  the  h^.mek^s  ami  lorlorn.      I  lattie  nndressed 
quickly;  and    was    soon    ;;trelehed   between   the  re- 
freshing^ sheets,  giving  herself  up  to  a  review  of  the 
eventlul   day.     A   quick  gush  of  tears  bedewed  her 
pillow,  the  truit  of  an  emotion  the  girl  a.uld  scarcely 
understanti. 

1-or  a  strant^c  sense  of  humiliation  and  shame 
mm-led  with  a  still  more  mystc  ms  strain  of  joy  • 
and  of  this  latter  she  could  not  locate  the  source' 
^  et  she  abandoned  herself  to  it  willin-lv  enou-h  ;  for 
somethin.tT  hke  the  gladness  of  the  spring  was  about 
lier  heart.  I  he  ma-ic  .sweetne.'.s  that  clothes  life  in 
the  hour  ol  ones  convalescence  seemed  to  have  come 
to  her. 

With  quick  bounds  her  mind  flew  from  scene  to 
scene,  covering  the  whole  compass  of  her  life  Aber- 
deen and  its  golden  twilight  days;  the  removal  to 

1-4 


■•ll".;;   till     lillU,    ,„l,l   UlC-MVLXl 

n.o,    ,.!,,,„.,  ,,,,,,„„  ., ,„.,,,„  „„.„„„.^.__ 

1'^'     lll'.lIU:,   ,    |,„,,|,    „„|,    ,11  „  .,,v,  rv       r 

: ""' '-'"'  •"■'' " -..■;.,„;;:;•,- 

"■■■>;•■■■  :""|  '■■■■  .N.i.r.  ,,..,„„„„„.  ,„ ,  ,    '  ■; 

"'""'"•^' "1"1N.T.„-,.I,.,„|„„„|  '"'" 

■V™cs  ,U,.W  ,,,ni  >v.,,  v,.,,c,l  ,,,,  ,,,, y „ 

b7  :.,;,";■'■','" ,"'" ^ ^i-.;,.,  ,.o,„„„„;; 
1-  -.     IM,  cl.,„n    „,„,   ,„.  .,,,,„,„,  „,  ,,„  ,,J 

-an  r  :,";r'^r  °' ''"''  "-^  p'^^-''' -^  -  - 

a     so    „,,ll,K,b,e  ,„  ,h.  ,,sht  „f  >vl,a,  |„d  1,^,,. 
™  d   .,':"r  n-"cler»to„d  a.  she  had  read  theL 


126 


THE    UNDERJOiy 


V,  i 


And  Hattie's  face  burned  like  fire  as  she  recalled 
the  innocent  joy,  the  simple  hopefulness,  with  which 
she  had  set  out  for  London.  Like  molten  gold  it 
glowed,  as  she  recalled  their  meeting  ;  the  momentary 
shock  as  she  read  her  companion's  face — the  Gehenna 
of  her  words  and  their  dread  suggestion.  Again  an 
indescribable  face  seemed  to  look  out  at  her  through 
some  shadowy  lattice  ;  and  the  mal-aroma  of  some 
deadly  nightshade  seemed  again  to  smite  her  to  the 
heart. 

Then  her  mind  leaped  swiftly  on,  as  if  seeking 
shelter  from  :.anie  phantom  enemy  ;  and  the  lights  of 
home— and  the  locking  of  a  mighty  door — were 
somehow  commingled  with  the  tender  face  which  she 
had  last  looked  upon  in  the  dark  without ;  she  con- 
fused her  mother's  voice  with  the  tones  that  had 
called  her  so  tenderly  by  her  childhood  name.  And 
the  memory  of  her  mother's  parting  kiss — sacra- 
mental though  it  was — blended  with  a  different  imaee : 
wherewith  sweet  drowsiness  stole  about  her.  Then 
she  surrendered  her  soul  to  God  in  a  half  uttered 
prayer  that  lost  itself  in  the  blessed  ocean  of  a  dream- 
less sleep. 


I- 


';J 


' 


Ji 


When  the  girl  had  finished  her  simple  breakfast 
next  morning,  the  matron  took  her  into  a  private 
room  and  closed  the  door  behind  her. 

"  I've  got  good  news  for  you,"  she  began,  still 
standing  with  her  back  to  the  door.  "  I  knew,  as 
soon  as  I  saw  you  last  night— that  you  were  different, 
so  different  from  those  that  usually  come  in.     And 


'^  mTtm^Siftm^  ^  3 


HATTIE   /ind   The  COMMANDER        ,27 

I've  been  telling  all  about  yo,  „.  t,^.  f:on,n.ander 
—.he  happened  to  come  dou  :  ncre  tlu.  rn. ,'  nn-  " 

bhe  stopped,  smiling;  for    :v.rence  v.a:-  meant  to 
mark  the  name.     •'  The  Comn.  ,.\.  y,,^  to  see  you 
herself,     she    continued    radiantly,    mentioning    the 
name  of  one  of  London's  guardian  angels,  a^ear 
relative  of  the  great  Administrator  whose  fame  has 
filled  the  earth  as  one  of  the  most  consecrated  war- 
riors that  ever  buckled  on  his  armour.     "  She's  going 
to  see  you   herself-and  you   can   t.^u,t  her  as  you 
would  your  ou  n  mother.     You'll  lov  c  her  as  suon  as 
you  see  her-everybody  does.     Come.  I'm  going  to 
take  you  to  her  now." 

Hattie  followed  her  guide,  and  was  soon  shown 
into  an  inner  room,  her  eyes  falling,  as  she  entered 
upon  one  of  the  most  gracious  and  winsome  faces' 
that  ever  shone  with  love's  mystic  light.     Her  heart 
seemed  to  leap  toward  the  woman  as  she  noticed  the 
compassion  of  her  eyes  and  the  simple  sweetness  of 
her  whole  appearance.     She  was  tastily  attired,  al- 
most richly  it  would  seem,  though  the  credentials  of 
her  oftce  could  be  seen  upon  her  dress.     But.  robed 
though  she  had  been  as  an  oriental  princess,  the  eager 
conipassion  of  her  soul  would  still  have  been  easily 
perceived;  her  whole  womanhood  seemed  touched 
with  the  redemptive  pity  that  looked  out  from  great 
lustrous  eyes  upon  the  homeless  girl  before  her 

Like  one  who  had  found  something  she  had  long 
sought  in  vain,  she  rose  and  came  quickly  toward 
tne  stranger. 

"  Come  away,  come  away  in."  she  said,  as  if  she 


i:!.S 


THii  uxntKJoir 


'^    H 


m 


were  spcakinj,'  to  some  (ncml  I..1  whom  slic  had  been 
^^a.l.nK.  -  Mrs.  Vu.ll  here  ha.s  \n:cn  tcllm^  luc  about 
you.  ami,  Icailin-  her  to  a  c.ucli.  hhc  sat  doun 
bcsKleliei-.takm-  1  lattii's  liaiul..  m  hers.  Jlusti :  ,1^-- 
ncxs.  loni;  laniiliar  li.,n>  hand.-,  tlial  aiv  huKlc-.i  i„,u-. 
seemed  to  auakcii  louiitaiiis  o|  nKiuoiy  m  Hr.  \^.„,.' 
ile.vr.  who  laul  licr  teai -.stanud  lace  01,  tl>e  w.lhn,. 
bosom  ol  Iicr  iiew-louMil  liRiui. 

••  W  line  are  you  -oni;;.  my  dcAv  >  •  „•  laitcT  s.nd 
..Iter  a  tune.  -  Wout  \,m,  tell  me  a,  ,m,eh  as  v.u. 
i:Ai\  a!)out  yoursell  r"  " 

••^">."-»l'!>c-dllatt.e. -you're  so  jy.uHl  to  mc_  and 
1  dou  t  know  wlieie  I'm  ;;omL'." 

"eant  you  .^o  home,  cluld  ?  Or  have  vou  mo 
home?" 

"^■o.  none."  said  llatt.e.  the  blue  eves  ,aised  to 
iook  out  01  the  wmdow  a  moment^-a-,  .y  ,,a.t  the 
chimney  pots  ot  the  liouses  about  her.  .She  w  is 
thnikm-  of  the  honeysuckle  on  the  porch  o|  what 
liad  once  been  home;  and  her  eyes  were  turned 
toward  the  duection  in  which  .she  thou-ht  it  lay. 

A  -raceful  arm  had  stolen  -ently  aroumi  the  <-irl's 
shoulders  :  ••  Tell  me  about  your  home."  Whereupon 
the  reverie  of  the  ni-ht  became  the  narrative  ot  the 
day. 

"  1  kno^v  I   can  trust  you,"   Ilattie  said ;  <•  and  I 

11  help   me  to  tell  somebody,  any  uay." 

*'"'  '"'    ht  and  happy  morninc: 


th 
A 


of  lier  life,  she  told  the  h 
back  nothin"  that  b 


ours, 


one  by 


one,  kee 


And  that  wms  how  1 


3ore  on  all  the  sad  heart-stor)- 


•pinjj 


came  to  come  to  London 


'''<^^      M; 


.1ml,  ^ 


'^,msi 


n^'iinii   Aiui    The   COMM^INDI.K        12., 

•she  co„dudc.lJ>.It  ,.pn^,lU  n,,,,  t,,,,,,,,^,  ,^,.,^,__^^,  _^_ 
:::'^'"-   'V'"  ,"""'■    "'^''    ^■>'^-^^'-^    woca.lanK,.: 

^"'<     ""■'-'"'''  K'^tl-'tsn.  money  ami  ,,rclty.l.„l,cs 
'"    '-<;".l..n-a.ul    1    ua,  :.„  p,...,,     And    I  lh„H..l,t  I 

;""''^Vr""""''  '"""^^'"-•!  <'i'.iu-.>iiy,i„::.„,.t 

i    would  du:   ul.n,    I  f.Mn>dnutul.al,talimcant'    ,1 

"■"■^   -'-'^'l.  •'-"'!  ■■     -n.d    tl,c    >,lla-n    In  .  c.  d n.-d 

^'■:'"n.tlK.   ..,..,  iHdn,;:    l.K.  a   luu.ted   linn...  d. J.  i,. 
ili<--  untnair,  Invni-  luart. 

"'^'"1  tlu;-;M-|  ul.,.  ,n,luM-,I  VH.  tM,:,„nc>"    ,  1^,1 

>-l--l^:a.„,.-ulu:rc,..l)..      J)„c:,:l,ekn,nvuiKT. 
to  nnd  \-(iu  >  " 

"^".  ""      -he   :d.all    ncvn-   sec   nic  ;u-an>,"  I  laltic 
^'"•^^'■";'    -i"n,.n,iy.      ..When    I    knc.v    uhat    d.c 

"'-'■'t.  I  tuHK-d  and  ran  auay-ran  a.  hard  a.  J  oH.ld 
run.  ld,dn'U.n„uuhucI,.  ■  ,n,;;-and  1  .lidn't 
care.        t   ua,  at  Cha.nu,  Cn.  „,,,  ,,,,  ,,,k^,,  ,^ 

_       .at  I  .au- her  Ia.t.      Hut  M,      _.er  see  her  a,an.  .. 
"S  -    1    l.ve      never.-  and   the   .nl'.   eyes   lla.hed 
with  pnrpose  and  iiuii^'natitjn. 

•' l;o..r   httle   thn.,^-   the    Cum„,ander    whrspcred 

fondhn,  her  as  she  .p.,,,  ,  ..  ,,,  „^.^,^.^  ^.,^^^,  ^^^.  ^^J; 

ajjam-.f  we   can    help    .t."     Then   she    asked    her 

another  qucst.on-in   the   lowest  and  tcnderest    of 

tones. 

The  girl  blushed  Inrionsly.  •<  I  don't  know,"  she 
answered,  almost  n,  the  other's  ear.  "  I  try  to  forget 
about  hnn-:uKl  I  nearly  have."  a  look  of  wistful 
memory  ,n  her  eyes.  ••  I  seem  to  have  so  much  sad- 
ness m  my  life.     Xu,  1  dont  know  where  he  i.-he 


wpmr-- 


130 


THE    UNDERTOIV 


-J 


went  to  America  shortly  after,  and  I've  never  heard 
of  him  smce.     I  was  only  seventeen  then." 

Seventeen  she  might  still  have  been-  -thou-ht  her 
fnend  beside  her-if  one  nnght  judge  by  the  su-eet 
complexion,  pink  and  white  after  her  retreshin-  sleep  ■ 
and  by  tiie  golden  tresses  that  had  the  buoyancy  of 
girlhood  still;  and  by  the  big  blue  eyes  that  filled  so 
p.t.lully  fast;  and  by  the  dm^pling  mouth. and  earnest 
voice    and    all   the    simple  artlessness    that    had   so 
quickly  won  hei    heart.     For  the  morning  sun  was 
pouring  „,  through  the  open  window,  caressing  the 
girlish  form  with  soft  and  radiant  hands,  lighting  her 
face  with   its   tender  glow,  glancing  merrily  at  the 
tapenng  f.ngers  tliat  every  now  and  then  were  raised 
to  adjust  the  sunlit  hair. 

And  as  the  Commander  lo-  .cd  upon  her.  looked 
again,  gazing  into  the  eyes  that  were  so  full  of  mean- 
ing  and  emotion,  she  realized  how  rarely  lovable  was 
this  bloom  from  distant  fields,  borne  by   unfriendly 
winds  toward  the  awful  peril  of  London's  fiery  flame 
"  Tell  me  about  your  mother— tell  me  more  about 
your  mother,"  she  said  presently,  the  request  follow- 
ing naturally  from  her  immovable  confidence  in  the 
goodness  of  the  giri.     The  Commander  felt  an  unal- 
terable assurance  that  she  was  heart-true,  and  innocent 
and   pure,  however  darkly  circumstances  had  con- 
spired against  her.     <■  Are  you  like  her-do  you  look 
like  her.  I  mean  ?  "  she  added,  trying  to  make  it  easier 
for  her  to  go  on. 

"Yes.  mother  was  fair-she  had  hair  like  mine." 
said  Hattie.  her  hand  resting  on  the  others.     "She 


1L«  ,...*■  *.'^.'    V,^ 


\0' 


■^■Ui 


H ATT  IE   And   The   COMMANDER        ,^, 

was  an  Abcrdonian ;  and  father  and  she  carnc  to  hve 

near  Chester  bc.orc  I  was   born.     The  earhest  thn  ! 

can  ,-e„..,„ber  ua.  look.ng  over  the  great  valley  of 

.hr',y"'~^"'    ''.'    '"    '"^'    ^"•^-       ^^''   ^^l^^t   will    1    do 

<  '•    at7h       r  ''\  ""■'•  -'^'''''y  --•-ber.n,_ 
•t  s  at  that  place-that  place  that  I  went  to  first.^ 
Mave  you  the  address,  dear?  " 

th'"  h'n'  ^  '''"'  ''''  '''■''■■'•  '"^  *'>'^  number  "--and 

cheek-"  but  I  can  t  go  near  it-I  shan't-if  I  should 
never  get  my  box."  "^ 

"  Don't  worry  about  that.  Hattie.     You  see,  I  have 
ound  out  your  name-and  youll  let  me  call'yo    b" 

Ind  ni  s     T  ''°"^  '"^->-°"''^  S'-  -^-  -  order"^ 
and  111  see  that  it's  taken  out  lor  you.     You'll  let 

^any  kmd  of  eX^I^Tr r^^^: 
ever  prepare  to  teach-or  sevv-or  give  music  les- 
sons or  any tlnng  of  that  sort  ?  You  say  you  don't 
want  to  go  back  to  the  country  "  ^  ^ 

coull-;  '  T"""';   f  '^'^^  ^°   C^-^'--I  simply 
i^     B  ;^      7"         '  ^^'^^  ^^^^  °^  '■^S"'^^  school 
o      A       T       "  "''  '  ^^holar-at  least  we  thought 
so.     And  she  taught  me  mostly  herself." 


132 


■THE    UNDERTOIV 


"Did  your  mother  ever  say  anything  to  you  on 
the  subject?  I  mean,  about  what  you  would  hkdy 
do  when  you  were  left  alone  ?  " 

"  Xo_she  thou-ht  I  would  hve  with  Aunt  Bar- 
bara. Hut  I  cant  now.  \'e..  she  did  speak  to  me 
once  about  what  would  happen  .f  I  should  be  le.t 
alto-ether  alone." 

"  What  did  .she  i^uy  ?  " 

'•She  thought  I  „,,,.nt  J,.  ,,„,u,i„.  ,,,,1, 
VOK.  she  thought  1  sa,,  ...etiy.  lU,t  I  don' 
tlnnk  I  do_unly  1  l.n-ed  tu  ^uv^  to  her.  .She  a.ked 
">c  o  s,n^  to  her  when  she  was  dying-and  I  dal." 
tl'o  t.embuni;  voice  iiid.catin^:;  how  .acred  wa.  the 
memory. 

"  \\  hat  did  you  ^iw^,  dear  ?  " 

"  It  was  a  hymn-mother  loved  the  hymns  ( )f 
course  we  all  belon.^ed  to  the  Scotch  church-.o 
father  thouj,rht  of  nothing  but  the  psalms.  Mother 
liked  them  too ;  and  we  used  to  smg  them  at  fanuly 
worslnp  J5ut  she  loved  some  of  the  hymi)s  just  L 
well,  I  think."  ^ 

"  What  hymn  was  it  you  sang,  Hattie?" 

"  It  was,  '  When  I  survey  the  wondrous  Cross  ■— 

mother  liked  it  better  than  any  of  the  others.     And 

1  love  It  too.     I  sang  it  to  her  just  before  she  left 

me— and   —the  girl  stopped,  evidently  doubtful  as 


to  whether  or  not  she  sh 


ould 


'  And  what,  Hattie— what  th 
'  VVell,  it  was  then  she 


go  on. 


len 


one  that  I  wear_I  saw  you  look 


gave  me  this  cross — this 


ing  at  it. 


e^."  the  Commander  replied,  deeply  interested 


HyVTTIE   A,tJ   The   COMMAXDF.R        155 

•;  I've  bcu,  wunderinp:  about  it  ever  since  you  came 
in— \  ou  say  your  mother  Rave  it  to  you  then  ?  " 

"  ^c>,  ni  tell  you  about  it—it  lias  a  historv      A 
poor  uoman  near  us  was  ..  c^rcat  friend  of  niotlier's 
-and  moU.cT  nursed  her.      Well,  she  used  to  be  a 
servant   m   Canon    Kin-sley's   ],ouse_it  uas  Canon 
K.n-.ley  wlm  wrote  '.Mary  call   the   cattle   home'- 
and  uhcn  .lie  left,  he  save  her  thi>  cro-.      He  uas 
such  a  ^ood  man!     And  when  she  was  dym.^    .he 
^^ave  ,t  to  mother.     I  had  hardly  ever  seen  ,t  before 
—1   k'i'e^>   lather  didn't  like  mother  to  liave  it  very 
much  ;  tc.r  the  Scotch  people  mostly  tiiink  it's  hke 
the  Catholics.     So  mother  kept  it  auay  some  place 
hy  itselt_but  she  had  it  under  her  pillow  when  she 
was  dj-,n-.     Mother's  mother  was  a  Catholic  in  the 
H,i,^hlands;  but  her  father  was  a  Presbytenan-and 
so  was  .he.  ot  course.     But  still  she  loved  this  little 
cross,  I  know." 

"  And  did  she  put  it  on  your  neck  with  her  own 
hands,  dear.?" 

"Yes.  she  locked  it  on  herself— and  the  kcv  was 
in  her  poor  thin  hand  when  she  was  buried.'  She 
has  the  key  and  I " 

•'  Never  mind.  dear,  never  mind-don't  speak  fur- 
ther of  ,t.     I  shouldn't  have  asked  you-don't  cry 
dear    -and  the  pure  lips   that  gently  touched  the 
girl  s  were  as  tender  as  those  that  mouldered  in  a  dis- 
tant grave. 

"No.  no"_IIattie  sobbed-- only  I  remember 
how  the  poor  fingers  touched  my  neck-^he  was 
cough-ng  so-and  I  want  to  tell  you.     She  kept  tue 


i34 


THE    UNDER-TOP^ 


key— and  I  promised  her— I  promised  her,"  she  went 
on,  controlhng  herself  by  a  resolute  struggle,  "  that  I 
would  wear  the  little  cross  ahvays,  always 'as  long 
as  '—then  the  voice  hushed  to  a  whisper  and  the 
rest  was  breathed  into  her  listener's  car.  "And  I 
have  "—she  resumed  almost  violently-"  I  have— 
and  I  ahvays  will-always!  Oh,  my  mother,  my 
darhng  mother !  ■'  and  the  sobbing  form  was  folded 
tight,  passionately  tight,  in  the  loving  arms  of  the 
woman  who  was  sobbmg  almost  like  herself. 

"Thank  God,  my  child  "—the  older  one  mur- 
mured low-"  thank  God,  my  child-He'll  never  let 
you  go_and  I  won't  either,"  she  cried,  holding  her 
closer  still. 

The  spasm  of  lonely  anguish  soon  spent  itself  as 
Hattie  nestleri  in  the  loving  arms  that  had  been  the 
first  to  enfold  her  since  her  mother  died. 

"  I  must  go  soon,"  she  said  presently,  glancing  at 
a  clock  on  the  mantel. 

"  Go  where,  Hattie  ?  "  asked  the  other ;  "  1  thought 
you  were  going  to  stay  with  us  a  while." 

"  So  I  a.  ,_if  you'll  have  me.  But  I  promised  to 
keep  an  engagement  at  ten  o'clock  this  mornin-  •  it 
was "  '^  • 

"An  engagement! "the  Commander  cried  invol- 
untarily. "  Is  it  about  a  position  ?  "  she  added,  as  if 
to  atone  for  the  amazement  in  her  voice. 

Hattie's  face  showed  her  embarrassment  "  No  " 
she  began,  a  little  nervously,  -  ,t's  to  meet  a-'a 
friend."     Her  eyes  turned  full  upon  the  Commander's 


^[IS^'rJK^^^V'^ 


'■■■>^^"^^: 


HATTIE  Aud   The  COMMAMDER        ,35 

face.  SMHins  with  confidence  and  candour.     ••  m  tdl 

y^.;!  r'-  ^^■'-"^— y  from  that  ^^H 
yesterday,  I  vas  so  terr.ficd  I  wouldn't  speak  to  any- 
body-uould  Lardly  look  at  anybody.  Only  I  tHcd 
one  or  two  places  where  I  tho  .h-.  a  ^irl  n^Vh  "J 
work  just  c.nunon  work,  you  know-but  l^y 
-re  all  full;  and  none  of  then,  needed  anybdy"^ 
And  tha  went  on  fll  ,t  ^ot  dark ;  and  I  was  so 
Ike  ";;' t  "  '-".-y-I'd  never  been  hungry  before 
ke    t  It     and   I   wa,ted_and  walk.d   on-looking 

LI     If   J   '"""'   ^'''  ^  ^'^'^"S'^^  i  ^-''^1  trust 
And  I    r,ed  at  last.     I  really  asked  for  something  to 

sweet  f^c"h'  7"''"'  ''''  '""''^^'  "i^  ^--^^  the 
sweet  face  above  her  as  if  to  ask  absolufion 

thJ  f    1'' ';''"'  •  "~""^  the  smiling  eyes  were  free  from 
turn  out .'     \\  as  it  trustworthy  ?  " 

could''r:,t''h\^''''''~r'^    ^''   experienced    listener 
could  i.ot   but  note  the  warmth  of  her  tone  and  the 
s.gn.ficance   of  her  heightening  colour.      -  Oh  yes 
you  could   tell  he  was  good  to  look  ..  him-h'   vas 
a  1     and  dark-and  handsome  ;  at  least  his  face  had  a 

came  th-  '  '''  "^"^"'   '"^  *°  ^tay  here  tiii  he 

came  this  mornmg  to  see  me.  Oh.  tell  me  "-she 
pleaded  suddenly,  the  thought  just  o'ccurring  to  he 
-"do  you  th.nk  I  shouldn't?  Is  it  wTong?  He's  a 
m.mster^you  know-oh.  yes."  she  protested,  as  tL 
other  checked  a  smile--,  he's  a  minister-I  saw 
h.s  credentials  ;  and  he  is  anyhow,  without  them-but 


m 

s 


Ci 


v>\,. 


136 


7 HE    UNDt-RTO 


IV 


IWtsceImn  .T  you  don't  w.uu  „,e  to.- she  con- 
c-ic,  ,,,,,„..  ,^.^  ,_.^,,^,  .ntotlKstron.s.,;,  "n 
that  rctunu-(I  its  pressure.  ' 

*'MychihUl,.uIutcv,ryouth.nk.,sbcst,      I  trust 

"  I'll   Iniw^r   liini   to   >cc   V(Mi  •'   If  ,ff       •   . 

ocu  uc  i  to  he,-..- ami  tlKM  you'll  bcs„rcI„nHn  •• 
J">     as   y-H.  I,kc  about  that.  I  lattic-ni  Ik- H,d 

^  -   1-n.     The   .est  avdcntK..  a,W  all  .:;    e 
^a„d    t   e   voic..     They    hanily    .ver   decei  -^ 

lomiiKss,  lookui-   into   the  still    "listenip.r   ,„.  , 

•stroku,.,.  the  ua^•u•a^I   hau-      -  I F-      ,     /  ".' 

credentiais-but    remen/      d        ■'""•>'"'   '''' '^'^ 
,  '^'-'"^"''    '    ''^•'i''.  ^">"e  cruel  people 
>me    HK-n-and   womeu.    coo_they   won't    re.ard 

.K.v,^sanythn,,   bu:p,ayth,n,sL  their  a^^^^^^ 

cl^ccks.      I^ut  hou-  s.lly  of  mc  to  be  talking'  like  this 
-oMlv  you  are  beautiful.  Ilatt.e;  and  I  sh^ll  alua 
pray  that  the  ^reat  Capta.n  will  protect  ^•ou  '  ' 

Hatt.es  arritation.  as  she  looked  up  and  listened  to 

^eporentous  words,  showed  that  thei.n.eanin:t^ 
not  iiidden  h-oni  Jier. 

■■  1  k„„„,"  sl.o  a„s,verod,  her  lip  .rcmbli„a_..  thnl 

d  I  ;;7,;:  t'  'z """  ■  "■'• '-  '-•■■>•  f-  -- 

h,  !„         L  "  ''""  "  <""  "f  ^""«  ••'"  f"l  stream 

th,,  was  r„»h,„s  ,„„.a„|  a  torrent.     Oh,  I  love  yZ 

song  of  their  deli;:;::,';.'""  '''"  '""  "-■"'■"«  °"'  "- 


iiAjnii 


''f'ul    The  COMXUxn/.j^, 


"7 


"  And   nou'.  dt-ir   ,f  .. 

'"I-  nuscli— „r  I,  ,         '"•^'"-~'»'hI  I  inii.t  s(o 

annnitC-     '"^  ^'-'' -^hc.     C.,„e  ..t,  „„  ,„,  j^; 

^^''c'lf.lthcuay.amRlnianyascv.Mf 

^''-i'r-c,itI,LV^?;         "1''''''^''•^-^^'■''k/• 
tnuHU,,.,,  fn.„,  ,u,cr  .ca,c^  u^  '"-^^ :  '^"•- the 
trast  inevitably  flashed    m       'V  "'^^''f^  ""'^i  the  con- 
n^on.enthe.    "^            j    ^1-    ,"  "'"'•     ^^"^-a 
word,  blcndeu  n.th  it":                ''  ""''"  ^"^   ^'■^^  ^ich 

"  """^^  '■'^'""ge  Lave  I  none 
"•-'"gs  my  helpless  soul  on  Thee." 

her  ear  „.;„,  a,rc.L4',°'    Thc'cl'  "'"',  ="""^- 
"""■"IS.  but  played  on    „         ,  ""^ '^""""'""'tr  said 
ceediHB  verse'     V  Lr,'.     f' J  "?"',""  '"  '"=  "- 
d-ly  to  „„  feet,  a  Zl^^^t'  1"  ""'  ""'■ 
■•  I  want  you  to  .,„.,   uf.       ,     ""■'  ""'^  '"'''»■ 

'-..y  in  h^rto^:  .;:;::■::  r-^ff -!■:<'.  in- 

=        ■'^^'■>  at  nail  pabt 


r^.j7:W  m'/h^mp^r. 


U-S 


■THE    UXDERTOIV 


SIX  or  so.  at  our  woman's  meeting  at  the  Poplar 
b^.-racks.  MI  be  down  tliat  ni-1  .  myscH—rn  take 
yu  tloun.  Tlic  n.M,„  u,ll  be  lull  of  yuls  and 
women-and  well  have  a  little  service,  as  they  al- 
ways do.  I'll  pla>'  lor  you  n,ysell_„uu-  ^ood-bye  , 
1  11  hkely  see  you  when  you  conie  back." 

It  was   a   (c^^■  mniutes  alter   the  appointed  hour- 
when    Hatt.e    Hast.e  went  down   to   the  halhvay  of 
what  she  really  felt  had  been  to  her  a  liouse  of  God 
and  the  gate  of  heaven.     It  was  a  plain  bare  hall- 
way w,th  a  kw  seats  down  each  side.     Yet  it  seemed 
thncc  beautiful  to   her  thankful  gaze ;  for  it  hnked 
her  to  the  highest  fnend.  as  it  had  sheltered  her  from 
the  fiercest  foe.     She  felt,  too,  though  the  thought 
was  not  defined  within  her,  that  it  had  done  more- 
that  It  had  enlisted  her  on  the  victorious  side  in  life's 
spectral  fight,  vivid  and  actual  as  it  had  become  to 
her  so  suddenly  beleaguered  soul. 

She  had  been  there  scarce  a  moment  when  her 
eyes  fell  on  Stephen,  coming  through  the  entrance. 
He  sees  her  too— and  has  already  started  forward  to 
meet  her.  He  can  catch  the  new  radiance  upon  her 
face-that  face  which  the  darkness  of  the  night  with 
the  dark's  suggestive  guile,  had  half  concealed  and 
half  revealed. 

Eager  fur  a  fuller  verdict,  he  hurries  toward  her  • 
for  the  famter  fascination  of  the  night  had  mer-ed 
with  the  morning  iuto  a  distincter  interest,  which 
he  would  have  been  as  reluctant  to  acknowlcd^^e  as 
lie  was  unable  to  exjjlain. 

But  if  this   uuerest  in  the  girl  was  unjustified  by 


'j-^  -F^./i^j.'  y-f-.iatsi'm^ 


H.'IJTIF   y^iij    Jlu-   COMMAS  PER        ,  ^t, 

anythin,.;  that  Iiad  pa.v.cci  bctorc.  it  was  not  without 
K<HKi  excuse  lor  It.  existence  now.  as  Stephen  looked 
ancu'  upon  the  (ace  tluU  had  nut  been  absent  Horn 
hi.  dreain^.  And  it  that  tUcc  liad  claimed  the  chicfcst 
place  in  the  vi-,ion.s  of  tiic  ni.ijht.  it  wa.  le^s  to  be 
remarked  ihat  its  rivals  were  for^'.^ten  now,  tlio 
niurnm-  l.^ht  attesting  a  beauty  which  the  bliadows 
of  the  m-ht  culd  but  -su^jjest. 

'•  Good  mornin-.  Miss  Hastie."  said  Stephen,  tak- 
in.t,'  her  hand.  "  I'm  -lad  to  sec  you  a-ain.  And  I 
needn't  a.Ic  if  you've  had  a  ^uod  ni-hts  rest,"  he 
averred,  the  manly  face  lit  up  with  -enuine  pleasure. 
"  And  I'm  glad  to  see  you  "—responded  Hattie— 
"  I  wanted  to  thank  you  again— and  oh,  I  met  such 
a  good  lady  in  there." 

••  That's  good  ;  I  felt  sure  you  would  encounter 
somebody  worth  while  here,"  said  Stephen.  "  Now 
It  isn't  very  cheerful  just  here.  Suppose  we  step 
across  the  street  and  take  one  of  the  seats  in  that 
httle  park.'  The  girl  brought  her  hat  and  went  as 
cheerily  as  if  to  an  outing,  and  m  a  moment  they 
were  at  the  little  oasis  of  .-reen  that  could  be  seen 
from  the  doorway  of  the  house.  "  Isn't  London 
splendidly  provided  with  places  like  this'"  said 
Stephen.  "  They  mu>t  be  a  haven  of  refuge  for  many 
a  weary  one,"  he  added,  leading  the  way  toward  the 
little  seat. 

"  It's  a  poor  haven."  Hattie  answered,  sighing— 
"It  needs  something  more  than  that."  Stephen 
made  no  reply  ;  and  they  took  their  places  in  silence 
uuon  till.  bene!'.. 


I40 


THE    UNDERTOIV 


1 

^'1 


The  altogether  significant  feature  of  their  inter 
view  was  the  very  silence  of  ,t :  and  Stephen,  at  any 
rate,  found  ,t  full  of  melody.  The  embarrassnK-n^ 
that  seemed,  hah- conscious  though  .t  was,  to  keep 
Hatt.e  s  eyes  turned  from  his  own.  clothed  her  in  new 

lovely  A  sense  of  the  chivalric.  deeper  than  he  had 
ever  felt  before,  thrilled  h.m  w^ith  soft  gladness  l^s 
heart  gomg  out  to  the  girl  in  a  spirit  that  syn  p  "ti; 
had  enhsted.  but  which  was  fast  changing  to  one  J 
distmct  and  cordial  admiration. 

By  and  by  the  stream   of  conversation  began  to 
flow  the  man  groping,  with  womanly  curiosfty,  for 
tl  e  threads  of  h.s  companion's  hfe-story.     Pa      of 
-|.ch    she   told    him-all   that   w.s    essentiaJher 
natural  candour  and  innocence  lending  a  sweet  grace 
to  her  words.     Nor  could  he  fail  to  realize  that  the 
deepest  and  clearest  note  of  all  her  being  was  the 
sp.ntual.  the  spiritual  in  its  simplest  sense ;  for  her 
nature  was  essentially  religious,  and  the  very  atmos- 
phere of  her  life  was  of  trustfulness  and  hope 

on   r  pphnj,  sometimes,  sometimes  laughing  on  their 
pebbly  way.  sometimes  halting  deep  and  troubled  in 

true-  t'T,;  '"^  ^'^^'^'^>'-^  ^^-^'^'-y^  transparent. and 
ts  ;'"  A  °  '""■'■--^'--.  the  pure  stream  found 
t^   ^^a>.     And    as   .Stephen   listened   to   the  limpid 

bore  their  evidence,  sometimes  dancing,  sometimes 
bnmm.ng.  to  that  story's  simple  truth  he  heard  a 
new  voice  calling  m  tones  hitherto  unknown,     sof 


ll^iniE  A,.J   The   COMMANDER        ,4, 
ne>v  I,a„d  /umbling  „.,th  a  goWcn  kcv  a,  ,h,. 
door  .l.a,  „„  „„„  „^,  „„,„,\Xtl.      *•  """"- 

"Vl'liat?"lIattii.-a,kcd,vvo„dcnii? 

-ju.st   before     he  lef„,eTHT  "'"  "  '°  ""= 
always  to  w,.,r  rt         J  '"'    '    l'™mise<i  her 

•n     strength     and    tenderness      V.  '    ^"'' 

glimpses  she  might  havrhT  "  k  T  ^"''   '"y^*^^'""^ 

tion  to  selfishn.       h      ,    f-"-^°"fidence.  his  inchna- 
shadowy  Jfltw.Il      r",    .'.''   *"""*   '^'^   °^  ^'-t 

syn.p;;h;^r^::;r-rr^r"^^r;- 

K         -ootne  her  sorrow,  and  to 


ifcr^jst^-'vv.'caf^tTPf  ■•.'?^  mb'^^jt^  i  r^ff.i-'»*-o«s"  xff^r:* 


142 


THE    UNDERTOH^ 


f   I 


shelter  her  helplessness,  uith  infinite  tact  and  kind- 

and  Hatt.es  heart  beat   the  happiest  of  time  to  his 

musical  and  nouinj^r  sentences. 

•' There's  another  thing  I  hope  you'll  pardon  my 
si^eaknig  about."  he  sa.d  at  length-',  but  its  neces- 
sary. What  are  you  going  to  do  now?  I  uant  to 
help  you  ,n  that.  ,f  I  can.  I  hardl>-  know  anybody  in 
London-e.xcept  a  man  from  America  who  is  staging 
at  he  Metropole-but  I  could  see  a  m,nister-and 
perhaps  we  could  find  something  suitable.  There  are 
3i  u  tiys 

••  That's  so  kind  of  you."  interrupted  Hattie--  but 

I  m  engaged  for  a  while-yes,  I've  got  a  kind  of  a 

pos.fon        she  continued-..  I  don't  know  what  my 

dut.es  W.11  be.  but  I've  got  a  kind  of  a  position."  she 

repeated,  smiling  at  his  expression  of  surprise. 

"  Where,  what  at?  "  he  asked  quickly 

"I  don't  know_at  least,  I  don't  know  what  at. 

But  In.  go.ng  back  there."  she  avowed,  indicating 

^le  Army  Home  by  a  motion  of  her  head.     .-The 

Commander  asked  me  to  come  back-and  I'm  going. 

Oh,  I  nearly  forgot;  I'm  going  to  sing  a  week  from 

^-night  at  a  little  meeting  at  Poplar.  Yo^ 

didn  t  know  I  could  sing,  did  you  ?  " 

"No,  I   didn't.     Can  you?     And.  oh.  won't  you 
Jet  me  come  too  ? "  .  >  uu 

to  "do  °'  ^  T''~''  ^'^''  ^  "'"'^  '""^h  ••  b"t  I'm  going 
to  do  my  best  a  week  from  to-night.  And  do  you 
really  want  very  much  to  come  ?  " 

Stephen's  a.  ;urance  was   qu-ckly  given,  and  her 


I  I 


1^ 


■■-\^'^fMk- 


m ..  ¥M3'T^^:7Tm^s 


1 


HA  J  HE  And    The   COMMA  XDER         ,45 

consent  secured ;  but  he  pleaded  .ently  tl.at  they 
should  „>eet  at  lea.t  once  in  the  nUerval.  and  to  tins 
at  lenf,'th  I  lattie  f^ave  assent. 

"  ^   ""''"''  ^^'^  >■"»   J^'^^^-  Slad   I  am  that  well  meet 
soon    asam.      Goud-bye   for  just  a  httle  uh.le,'   he 

sau^.  and  ,t  thnlled  him  to  see  the  re.pons.ve  light 
with  uhicii  I latties  lace  kmdleU  at  hi.  words 


m 

m 


XII 

The  CHURCH  of  The  COVENANT 

THE  upturned  cartli  was  brcathin-  sweet  in- 
cense  from  its   wounds   as  tlie  plou-liman 
stopped  his  liorses  now  and  then  to  tramp 
down  a  rebellious  sod,  or  quickly  adjusted  it  without 
lessening  Ins  speed.     One  by  one.  the  increasin-^  fur- 
rows w-.r-..  chant,Mnff  the  surface  of  the  fruitful  acres  • 
and  lv,ul,en  -lanced  with  satisfaction  at  the  land- 
ocean  his  steady  industry  had  made  behind  him      He 
was  repeafng  to  himself  the  •<  Lines  to  a  Daisy,"  that 
cou  d  have  fallen  from  no  pen  but  that  of  the  won- 
derful plou^,^hboy  with  whom  Jock's  great-grandfather 
ad  once  made  merry  before  Immortality  had  taken 
that  ploughboys  name  into  her  keeping. 

"  Wee  modest,  crimson-tipp.t  flower."  he  repeated, 
the  rest  flowmg  half  inarticulately  from  his  lips,  till 
an  aud.b  e  :  .■  thy  slender  stem,"  betokened  that  the 
end  of  the  verse  and  of  the  furrow  had  been  made 
together. 

The  farther  end  of  the  new  furrow  had  been  al- 
most reached  ;  and  Reuben  took  a  quick  glance  at 
the  descending  sun,  th  ■  toilers  sentinel  and  friend, 
whose  relaxing  rays  advised  him  that  his  labours  for 
ho  day  were  almost  at  an  end.  A  gentle  word  to 
the  horses  brought  them  to  a  standstill,  for  they  were 

1. 14 


■The    CHURCH   of    -The    COl^EX^XT      14s 

accu.sluincd  t.j  .top  while  tlic  lurruu-  uu.s  stil!  ina;m- 
plctc;  there  is  m.;rc  plou-liin-r  tc;  be  duiic  on  the 
niurruu,  and  it  is  cuMcr  to  start  in  the  open.  Reuben 
flung  tlie  rope-hnes  in  different  (Urectioiis  truni  hi> 
hands  and  ^tnoped  to  unhitch  the  chn^uv^  traces. 
One  chain  iiad  been  relea.sed  and  thrown,  resoundin-. 
over  tlie  liurse'.s  back,  when  a  voice  broke  in  upo'ii 
him. 

"  Can  you  tell  w  •  where  Mr.  Wishart  lives?" 
Lookii;-  up,  Reuben  .saw  that  the  question  came 
from  a  man  whom  he  had  never  met  before,  a  man 
of  about  {\ny  years  of  a-e,  whose  ^'cneral  appearance 
mdicatcd  considerable  prosperity.  lie  had  come  un- 
heard across  the  field,  following  the  path  of  Reuben's 
latest  furrow. 

"  iMr.  Wishart  ?  Yes,  sir,"  Reuben  answered,  sur- 
veying the  stranger  as  he  spoke;  "he  lives  in  that 
house  yonder,  beyond  that  little  bush-he's  my 
father."  ^ 

"  Oh,  I  see— have  you  a  brother  called  Stephen 
Wishart,  the  Reverend  Stephen  Wishart?" 

"  Yes,  sir— but  I  don't  think  he's  exactly  a  Rev- 
erend yet,"  replied  Reuben  smiling  ;  «  he  hasn't  been 
ordained  yet,  you  know." 

"  I  see,  I  sec,"  said  the  stranger.  "  I've  met  your 
brothcr_but  he's  practically  that,  being  througl,  his 
college  course.  I  would  like  to  have  an  interview 
with  your  brother.     That's  what  I  came  here  for." 

"I'm  very  sorry,  sir— but  my  brother  isn't  at 
home." 

"  What !     A  way  from  home  ?  "  said  the  other,  evi- 


146 


*5    -Ji- 
lt    % 


•THE    UNDERTOU/ 

*  Where  is   he  ?     Will  he  be  back 


tlently  amazed 
soon  ?  " 

"No,  not  very  soon.  I'm  afraid— he's  in  the  old 
country-gone  there  to  complete  his  studies."  said 
Keuben.  terminatni>^  the  existence  of  a  horse-lly  u  ith 
a    resounding  slap  ;  •■  ],e's   going   to   study  in   ICdin- 

thlrtorll^.  ""''"'''•  '''"''"'■^>'  P"'^  '"'"^^'"^  -th 
•'  Well,   that's    unfortunate,"  said    the    man      '■  I 
came  a  good  way  to  see  him.     I  k„ew  he  was  think- 
ing of  go.ng  to  Europe,  but  1  d.dn't  imagme  he  was 
going  so  soon." 

"  He's  gone."  said  the  ploughman,  with  the  plain- 
ness of  his  race,  scraping  the  upper  part  of  the  plough- 
share as  lie  spoke.  ■•  What  did  you  want  to  see  irim 
about,  might  I  ask  ?  "  he  ventured,  looking  up  at  the 
stranger. 

"Oh.  certainly,  my  name's  Alger  and  I  live  in 
Hamilton-one  of  our  cit)-  churches  there  is  without 
a  minister-the  one  to  which  I  belong;  our  minister 
was  called  to  New  York-and  a  couple  of  us  have 
been  sent  here  to  confer  with  your  brother  with  a 
view  to  giving  him  a  call.  Nothing  technically  com- 
pleted yet,  you  know,  but  our  congregation  are 
unanimous  in  wanting  him.  It  certainly  is  disap- 
pointing.  ^ 

"  Oh."  enquired  Reuben.  <'  is  yours  the  Church  of 
the  Covenant,  the  one  Steve  used  to  go  and  preach 
m  sometimes  ? "  i^  f 

"  Yes,  he  supplied  frequently  for  us  when  our  last 
minister  was  absent  in  the  Orient-and  he  made  a 


^ijffiF-j&ii"-r*^-«':5*^T 


-  •  "TUMiTtinfFr— 111  -Tf  T»r"  —  ^ 


■i-^.—'-^i- 


•The    CHURCH   of    The    COVENANT     147 

lastinrr  impression.  \Vc  were  all  so  taken  with  his 
cultuie — .uid  Iii.s  elocjuence." 

"  I've  often  heard  Steve  speak  about  your  church," 
said  Reuben. 

"  H;is  your  brother  any  idea  we  are  thinkint;  of 
him,  do  you  think  }  "  enquired  the  visitor,  smihn<;  at 
Reuben. 

"  No,  I  shouldn't  think  so.  At  least,  I  never  heard 
him  speak  of  it — I've  heard  him  say  he  could  ^et  a 
call  to  Morven  if  he  liked." 

"  JMorven  !     Where  is  iMorven  ?  " 

"  It's  up  north— up  by  the  lake  somewhere,"  an- 
swered Reuben  ;  "  you  must  have  heard  of  it— but  it's 
not  a  very  big  place,"  candour  inclined  him  to  append. 
He  gathered  up  the  lines  as  he  spoke. 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  remember  it  now.     A  hamlet,  a  mere 

hamlet,  a  man  up  there  used  to  buy  goods  from  me 

it's  hardly  likely  your  brother  would  consider 
Morven.  But  about  the  matter  that  brought  me 
here,"  he  resumed  quickly,  the  business  air  strongly 
in  evidence,  "  I  hardly  know  what  to  do.  You  think 
your  brother  won't  be  back  for  some  time  ?  " 

"  I'm  sure  he  won't,"  said  Reuben,  giving  the  lines 
another  jerk  backward  ;  for  the  hungry  horses  were 
tired  of  the  conversation.  They  could  see  the  barn 
beyond  the  point  of  woods. 

"  Your  father's  at  home,  you  say  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes,  father's  there." 

"  Well,  I'll  tell  you  what  I'll  do— I'll  go  back  to 
the  village  and  have  supper  ;  then  I'll  bring  the  other 
member  of  the  committee  and  we'll  come  and  talk 


7<-^.'-m^..^-^'^s: 


148 


THE    UNDERTOH^ 


matters  over  with  your  father.  It  won't  do  any  harm 
-he  can  report  to  your  brother;  thouf;h  of  cour.e 
we  11  write  to  him  direct." 

"  Very  good,"  said  Reuben,  "  fathcr'll  be  glad  to 
sec  you.  &"<■>-' 

•■  Good-bye  just  now  ;  Til  hope  to  see  you  a  little 

R  ;h'f  ^v    ,  '"■'"'^'''  '^  '''  ^"''"^^^  '^  SO  his  way. 

Robert  U^shart  was  wa.ung  in  the  liouse  for  his 
son  when  he  came  home. 

"  Weel.  Reuben,  yir  days  work's  by,"  said  tlie 
kindly  voice  ;  .<  yc'll  be  through  wi'  yon  field  to-mor- 
row,  will  ye  no'  ?  " 

ram?i;tHe'%t  'T  '  ''"'  ^°-'"*  ''  ^°°^^  '^- 
ra  n  a  httle.       The  last  words  were  lost  in  another 

^eXt;t.i:  ^'"  ^'^"'  '"'^^"'"^  ^^  ^— ^  ^^-^ 

cL^7  "'?  ^°''  ^°"  *°'"'Sht,  father,"_the  words 
came  from  the  recesses  of  a  roller  towel 

"  Nev.-s  for  me.  my  son  ?  I  hope  it's  guid  ;  ye've 
had  a  screed  frae  Stephen,  mebbe." 

"  Xo,  father,  no  word  from  Stephen-but  the  news 
IS  about  h.m  though-and  it's  good,  all  right." 

ars'hip  .n  ■  '''"'  ^''''*  """  *'''  ^""^^'^  ^""^"  ^  ^'^hol- 
"  No,  not  exactly  that,"  answered  Reuben  ;  "  and 
yet  I  don  t  know  but  what  you  might  call  it  that,"  he 
added,  smiling  toward  his  father's  eager  face  -A 
man  from  Hamilton  was  looking  for  him  this  after- 
noon-came up  to  me  where  I  was  ploughing  and 
asked  me  if  I  knew  where  Mr.  Wishart  lived.  But 
twas  bteve  he  meant.     There's  two  of  them,  he  said 


11 « 


'i^lk^,  "m^mkyjt  -'"^nii^skm. 


"^^r^^Kr^ 


•The    CHURCH  of    The    CO^tSA\'T     149 

—he  Ic-lt  the  other  man  at  the  villa-e.     And  what  do 
you  think  tlicy  wanted  with  Steve,  lather  ?  " 

"  I  dinna  ken  ;  how  cud  I  ken  ?  It'll  no'  be  about 
a  call  ?  " 

"  The  very  thing,  father-thcy've  been  sent  by  the 
Church  ot  the  Covenant  ;  and  they " 

•'What's  that  yere  telhn'  me  ?  "  his  father  broke  in 
excitedly  ;  "  ycre  no'  meanin'  to  tell  me  he's  gotten 
a  call  to  the  Covenant  kirk  ?     It  canna  be." 

"  Not  exactly  a  call,  iather—of  course  they  couldn't 
call  hini  yet  because  he's  not  licensed  yet." 

"  I  ken  that  fine— I've  aye  kenned  that." 

"  Not  exactly  a  call,  as  I  sa.d,"  Reuben  resumed  ; 
"but  It  amounts  to  that.  They  have  no  minister  and 
the  congregation's  set  on  Steve.  He  often  preached 
for  them  last  winter  and  it  seems  they  took  riglit  to 
him-and  these  men  were  sent  to  approach  him 
about  a  call." 

"  They  didna  ken  he  was  i'  the  auld  country  ?  " 
"No,  this  gentleman-Mr.  Alger's  his  name,  he 
said-he   was  quite  disappointed  when  I  told  him 
that.     But  still,  I  thought  he  looked  kind  of  pleased 
too.     I  suppose  a  church  like  that  wants  a  man  with 
ail  the  polish  he  can  get." 

The  old  man's  face  clouded  a  little  :— "  I'm  no' 
much  ta'en  wi'  their  pole-ish  these  days,"  he  re- 
turned. '.  It's  a'  richt  if  it's  frae  a  Higher  Hand-but 
If  Its  frae  the  hand  o'  man  it'll  no'  stick  lang— it'll 
no'  stand  the  fire !  It's  the  heart  as  needs  pole-iskin' 
—no  the  heid— an'  naethin'  can  mak  that  clean  but 
the  blood  o'  Christ,"  he  concluded  solemnly,  his  face 


r 


150 


THE    UNDERTOIV 


i 


.f! 


.||i  |i 


glouinfr  with  the  thought,  for  the  truth  he  spoke  was 
a  rcahty  to  hi;<  sou!. 

"  That's  what  I  think  myself,  father.  And  I  hope 
Stephen  w.ll  always  preach  that  old  truth  just  as 
you  ve  spoken  it— and  I  believe  he  will  " 

"I  hope  so,  my  son.  I  hope  so,"  his  father  an- 
swered gravely.  .<  I'n,  aye  prayin'  for  him.  Ar '  his 
mother  aye  prayed  the  same;  an'  I'm  trustin'  won! 
neriu  to  h.s  m.ther's  prayers."  he  added,  the  voice 
faltenng  perceptibly,  for  Robert  Wisharfs  life  wL 
very  lonely  now. 

ha'mfv-  r  '"''  '^'   "^'^   ^'''  *he  city  was  gone 
tTer  vel:^.  '"^"^''  '"^"^"^  ^"^^^'^  ^^^  ^'^  -re 
"Oh.  no,  I  forgot  to  tell  you-they're  going  back 
on  the  express  that  leaves  at  half-past  nine ;  and  Mr 
Alger  sa.d  they'd  be  up  after  supper  to  t;ik  rhing^^ 

Thats  gu.d.'  rejoined  his  father.  "  I'll  be  richt 
glad  to  see  them.  But  I  wish  yir  mither  had  been 
here-she  was  better  nor  me  at  the  counsellin'.  Did 
they  seem  to  be  speeritual-minded  men.  Reuben?" 
he  enquired  anxiously. 

;  Ves,"  Reuben  answered  slowly,  "that  is-you 
m.gh.n  t  just  think  so-of  course,  theirs  is  a  different 
way  from  ours.  I  only  saw  one  of  th  .m.  you  k^ow 
—the  other  didn't  come." 

"You  maun  be  hungry,  ,y  son.  Ye've  had  a 
hard  day  but  it  aye  maks  the  morsel  guid  to  the 
mouth,  an-  the  pillow  sweet  to  the  head,  'u'hat  Jay 
d.d  ye  no'  b.d  the  stranger  hame  to  supper  wi'  v     " 


iTJ-^i^^i7mW< 


4!LyMr^M:^:;^m: 


« 

I 


rhe    CHURCH   of    The    COyE\A\'T      n. 

"  I  thuu-ht  ot  it,  father,  but  I  dKlnt  like  t..  I 
was  alnud  lied  find  things  rather  plain.  Mr.  Al -er 
had  a  K^uld  natch— and  he  wore  tho.e  boots  that  you 
never  need  to  i)oii.sh." 

"  It's  an  aufu-  time  for  pole-i.sh,"  and  a  smile  lit  up 
the  old  man's  face  ;  ••  there's  mony  a  yin  pole-.shed  at 
that  en<i  that's  no'  ovver  bricht  at  the  ither— that's  no' 
to  say  .Mr.  Aul-er  is  j-in  o'  them,  mind  ye." 

"  I  don't  think-  he  is,  father-he  seemed  a  nice 
sensible  s^^ntleman." 

nr'ul^?  ^'^  '^°"''^  ''^^  '"■°"h*  '^'"^  ''■'  y^  to  supper. 
Mcbbe  he'd  a'  lik.t  the  change.  Yir  true  gentleman 
aye  maks  little  o'  appearances.  Style's  naethin' 
onyuay,  the  old  man  affirmed  with  considerable 
contempt  in  his  voice  ;  ••  onybody  can  hae  thae  shoon 
that  s  aye  shinin'.  An'  my  faith.r  had  a  hat  as  keepit 
Its  pole-.sh  for  forty  year-it's  .'  the  room,  ye  ken- 
he  aye  wore  ,t  on  the  Sabbath  day,"  and  a  gleam  of 
playful  humour  lighted  up  the  noble  countenance. 

"  They're  coming,  father_I  hear  Collie  barking" 
Reuben  said  suddenly. 

A  minute  later  Robert  Wishart  opened  the  door 
himself,  velcoming  the  strangers  warmly  and  biddin^r 
them  make  themselves  at  home.  "^ 

An  hour  or  more  had  passed  in  discussion  of  the 
matter  under  consideration  when  the  master  of  the 
house,  warming  to  his  guests,  suggested  that  they 
draw  their  chairs  closer  to  the  hearth.  ••  The  even- 
in  s  cool_an'  a  bit  fire's  heart.ome  ony  time"  ht 
said  ;  ..  sit  doon.  sir,  a.d  111  bring  anithcr  .liek.'' 


m.^sss^mtsm 


IS2 


THE    L  SDtx  ,  .)^' 


T 


It,*. 


i\-  ia 


goodly  pile   of 
"ruiJtcd   him  ; 

pleasure  of  rc- 
c  arc  unacciis- 
'  'H  I  tl  ink  tlic\ 

.  c  s  niair 
-cd  to  bay. 

•uiiid  yc. 
•  -'  wood." 

nd,  fling- 


As   he  approachca   tlic  '^ 

hickory  in  Ins  arnn,  Mr.    \ 

•'  I'ardon  nic,  sir,  but  nia\- 

plenishing   the   fire?     hi  v 

tiMucd  to  these  spacious  fire 

are  the  very  essence  of  luxu  y 
"  Ve're   richt,"   answered 

music  r  them  than  a  pian*,,  ; 

"Twa.^  a  guid  freen  to  him  i'  ti      earl     . 

Help  yirsel',  sir.      Rax  oot  y      !•  ..,.:   , 

Whereupon   Mr.  Alger  did  p^t  forth  hi.  ,.  . 

ing  stick  after  stick  upon  tlic  cackling  flame 

•'  You  see  hou-  generous  I  i.ni,"  l,c  laughed.  "  uith 
what  isn.  t  HA-  own.  It's  easy  to  pitch  on  ^.ood  that 
you  didn  t  h  ivc  to  cut  vv  carry  yourself." 
.k'1^'''u\''™  the  way  my  faither  used  to  express 
tha  Robert  Wishart  asked  h.m.  gazing  reminis- 
cently  into  the  blaze. 

_^^;  No,"  said  Mr.  Alger,  "  how  did  your  father  put 

"Twas  the  Scotch  way,"  returned  his  host  "an- 
no a  bad  Jin  either.     He  wad  say  :_■  A  bor;ou  ed 
horse,  an   y.r  ain  whip,  maks  short  miles.'  "_:md  the 
U-^od  man  joined  lieartily  in  the  laugh  that  followed 
'•  W  .^ood   Mr.  U-,-hart.  very  good  indeed."  said 
Mr.  \\  hitney    for  such  was  the   name  of  the  other 
whom  Mr.  Alger  had  brought  w.th  him.     -  Do  you 
know,  sir,  I'm  much  struck  by  the  beauty  and  sen- 
tentiousncss  of  your  Scotch  language.    I  love  to  hear 
It  spoken. 

"Are  ye  only  findm'  that  oot  noo?"  re-joir    i  the 


•T"e    CHURCH   of    -Jhe    CO^EX.JXT      ,.^ 

old    Scotchnun   humorcnHy.     ■•  I    ,,,:.   k.n  about 
!ut  >ihu  iiu„.  y,  vc  ,ncntionccl_but  1  ken  .f-  beau- 

'•J,;"H>o>o  y.u   coHMdcr  .t  finer  tiian  the  Kn- 

"^'iM:a   n,/.ay.n'that;'h,.   h    -t  returned  mod- 

.eke.     b.,u.c  Scotch  bu.M.kcy,.^ 
^11   f-i^lanu::,  then  heat,  nuurnch   and  .ueet.  ye 
Ken- a  bi'    .,   ncher    wl.  ye  unner-tand.      ]5ut  that  s 
"",   V  .'''-    ^'   •"^^"■^^■l'"'-'".   on>-  better  than   ither^— 
<'n\yh..  -   .tch.ye  ken-an' that'-  the  Lord'-,  daen' 
an   n  ,0  credu  to  ..nbody."  he  concluded  ..nou.ly.  ' 

MrWinineya:  M-.  Al^e,  c.t  amu-ed  ^la.KC^ 
at  each  other  Thar  h..t  uent  on  presently,  encour^ 
aged  by  t:ic  cheerlal  -il,  nee. 

;■  Kn;;h.Ii  is  a  -rand  langid^e,  nae  doot-only  it's 
no   co,npletc_n./  (eenished  l,ke.  ye  ken   " 

.  i^!^  '\\  ^■""    "•''•'''    ^^'-'^    '"'^'    ^^'-   ^Vishart?" 

capabie^of  expre-.n^  any  „,.anin^  one  u-anted  to 

*•  Xo."  sa.d  the  other  thoughtfully.  -  it  .anna  j.n'st 
ae  that  I,„  nae.cholar;butitcanna,nstdae 
tat-that.,t,uHudae,t  exactly,  ye  unnir-tand? 
An  a  langnl^^^e  -  canna  dae  that-,f.  no' c.  .mnlete. 
It  can  g,e  the  n.ani:,'.  „Kbbe  ,  but  no'  d>e  ./..,/.  o' 
meanin,  dac  ye  -ee - 

"  ^Vhat.  for  inst;,  ,ce?'   asked  .Mr     Alj^er      ..  Give 
us  an  example." 

-eCi,  ta!;  tiic  like  u   thii,,  for  in.^tance— tak  the 


U\ 


IS4 


THE    UNDERTOIV 


word  '  bonny  '—that's  a  shade  o'  mcanin'  ye  canna  get 
wi'  the  English.  Or  tak  anither— tak  •  the  gloaniin' 
— 'twtxt  the  gloamin*  an'  the  mirk' — ye  canna  gie 
me  English  for  that." 

"  That  IS  rather  remarkable,"  interjected  Mr.  Whit- 
ney thoughtfully,  as  he  laid  another  knot  on  the  fire. 
"  I  never  thought  of  that  before." 

"  There's  naethin'  like  the  Scotch  to  mak  a  body 
think,"  replied  Robert  Wishart.  looking  seriously 
at  his  listeners;  -but  I  can  gie  ye  a  better  yin 
than  ony  o'  the  ithers,"  he  pursued—"  there's  •  Auld 
Lang  Syne  '— noo,  try  \ir  hand  on  that ; "  and  he 
settled  back  in  the  old  armchair  that  had  heard  the 
liquid  language  for  well-nigh  half  a  century.  His 
guests  looked  across  at  each  other,  pondering  the 
challenge.  "You  try  it,  Alger,"  said  Mr.  Whit- 
ney. 

"  Well,  I  hardly  feel  equal  to  it,"  Mr.  Alger  said 
slowly.  "  I  suppose  '  Old  long  since,'  as  far  as  I  can 
translate  the  words,  is  about  the  meaning  of  the 
phrase." 

The  old  man  laughed  pitj-ingly,  giving  the  fire  a 
vicious  thrust  with  the  wooden  p>ker.  "Tuts,"  he 
exclaimed,  "  that's  haverin'— naebouy  kens  what  thae 
words  mean.  Even  a  born  Scotchman  '11  find  it  taks 
him  a'  his  time.  I'm  dootin'  if  onybody  kens  what 
thae  words  mean,"  he  affirmed  again.  Then  he 
turned  in  his  chair  and  looked  triumphantly  at  the 
beginners. 

"  Of  course."  Mr.  Alger  broke  in,  «  of  course,  Mr. 
Wishart,  it  must  be  borne  in  mind  that  the  phrase 


AtuSjikil 


tii'».i«,».' 


'  >»1'T»  i*; 


The    CHURCH  of    The    COyENANJ     1^5 

you  have  just  tried  us  on  is  only  an  idiom.  I'm  not 
sure  that  it's  just  a  fair  test.  Its  an  idiom,  you  see ; 
and  that  should  be  borne  in  mind,  as  I  said." 

The  rural  philologist  looked  at  him  very  curiously 
for  a  niunicnt,  the  slightest  flush  noticeable  on  his 
cheek.  "  I  dmna  ken  juist  what  ye're  nieanin'  by  an 
'  eedium/  as  je  call  it.  But  I  suppose  it's  what  an 
eediot  says.'—and  the  colour  on  his  cheek  was  deeper. 
"  Xoo,  thae  words  aboot  '  Auld  Lang  Syne/  thae  w.is 
sacred  nords  to  my  faither— an'  there  was  nae  eediot 
aboot  hn.i,  111  haeyeunnerstand— norony •  eedioms,' 
forbye.  That's  anither  thing  as  must  be  borne  in 
mind,  as  ye  say,"  he  concluded  warmly  enough  ;  for 
the  kindly  hearth-fire  could  never  scorch  his  cheek 
like  that. 

"Oh,  Mr.  Wishart,  I  didn't  mean  that  for  a 
moment,"  Mr.  Alger  made  haste  to  explain;  "the 
word  means  something  entirely  different  from  that. 
I  only  meant  a  characteristic  phrase  ;  you  understand, 
I  think — the  peculiar  cast  of  a  language " 

"  Aye,  I  thocht  it  was  m>  sel',"  the  old  man  broke 
in,  appropriating  the  adjective  to  his  comfort.  "  That 
was  what  made  me  sae  warm—but  it's  a'  ower,  an' 
we'll  say  nae  mair  aboot  it.  I'll  gie  ye  anither.  Try 
this  yin— <  The  land  o'  the  leal  '—let's  hear  ye  gie  us 
the  English  for  that." 

"  It's  your  turn,  Whitney— I'm  through,"  said  the 
last  translator. 

"  '  The  land  o'  the  leal  '—let  me  see,"  pondered  the 
novice.  "  Of  course  it's  easy  enough  to  translate  it,  in 
a  way.     There's  only  one  word  Scotch.     '  Leal,'  that 


156 


THE    UNDERTOIV 


& 


means  loyal,  of  course.     '  The  land  of  the  loyal.'  that's 
about  It,  I  suppose." 

Robert  Wisliart  withdreu'  his  far-off  gaze  from  the 
fire  turnrnj,^  it  toward  the  little  room,  hushed  in 
darkness  as  it  was. 

"  Von's  blawsi^hemy,"  he  said. 
Silence  prevailed  for  a  time  ;  then  the  delegates  re- 
sumed the  d.scus..,on  of  their  case  with  Robert  Wis- 
hart.  -I  he  size,  strength,  wealth,  intelligence  and 
fashionableness  of  the  Church  of  the  Covenant  were 
not  overlooked  therein.  Thc.r  listener  marked  it  all 
1  lis  heart  warmed  more  at  the  cordial  terms  in  which 
they  referred  to  Stephen,  praising  his  personal  appear- 
ance h.s  intellectual  powers  and  his  oratorical  gifts 

"  \\  hat   kind   o'  man  was  yir  last  minister  ?  "  he 
suddenly  enquired,  ••  how  long  was  he  wi'  ye?  " 

"iNcarly    three   years,  Mr.  VVisha-t,"  replied  Mr 
Alger.     "  And  he  was  a  very  ^^■orthy  man_a  little 
old   fashioned  perhaps;  and  our  people  grew  rather 
tired  of  him.     Vou  see.  he  fell  a  little  behind  the 
t.mes_not  mucii  of  a  reader_and  we  have  a  very 
mtellertual  congregation.     Dr.  Mitchell  wasn't  what 
you    would    call    familiar   with    modern   thought- 
preached  the  wrath   of  God  a  good  deal ;  and  more 
about  future  punishment  than  our  people  care  for  at 
present-and  other  things  that  are  rather  out  of  date 
So  when  he  got  a  call  elsewhere   we  didn't   inter- 
fere with   what  he   thought   to  be  his  duty.     But  I 
have  no  doubt  he  was  a  good  man_a  vcrv  good 
man.    he  concluded,  repeating  the  baneful  eJlogy- 
"  but  a  trifle  narrow  for  our  church," 


•The    CHURCH   of    The    COl^ENAST 


IS7 


A  qi'.ccr  look  was  on  Robert  Wishart's  f; 


ICC. 


I 


mind 


rcauii,  -somewhere —  tuas  in  an  old  book, "  he 
be^'an,  "  aa  how  the  way  was  narrow  and  the  j,'ate  was 
btrai;;ht,  if  it's  life  ye're  wantin' — but  I'm  dootin'  that's 
cot  o'  date  wi'  the  rest,"  he  con.inued — "  an'  sin's  out 
o'  date— or  ^'aem'  oot  last.  An'  if  they  cud  only  put 
death  oot  o'  date,  they'd  hae  it  a'  managed  fine,"  and 
he  gazed  into  the  fire,  apparently  unconscious  of  his 
audience ;  ••  but  God  aye  keeps  that  in  fashion,"  he 
mused,  glancing  at  the  darkened  room—"  an*  it's  a 
wunnerfu'  friend  to  the  Cross." 

The  ma.^ter-word  must  have  awakened  some 
memory  within  him.  «'  Reuben,"  he  said  impulsive!)-, 
"  ga".k'  y^  to  the  drawer  an'  bring  me  the  Record 
— it's  lyin'  on  the  top." 

His  son  returned  in  a  moment,  handing  him  a 
paper  that  showei'  signs  of  faithful  reading.  The 
father  held  it  out  before  his  visitors.  "  Div  ye  see 
thae  mnrks  beside  that  bit?  Thae  marks  was  put 
there  by  her  that's  lyin'," — and  he  looked  long  and 
earnestly  at  the  wondering  men  ;  they  were  unfamiliar 
with  the  term,  but  could  not  mistake  the  significance 
of  the  lonely  words. 

"  It's  a  kirk  paper  frae  Kelso,"  he  went  on 
presently;  "an'  it's  aboot  an  auld  man  tellin'  his 
daughter  aboot  the  new  theology.     I'll  read  it  to  ye  : — 

"  '  There's  nac  cross  ava,  noo,  lassie. 
They've  gone  cut  doon  the  tree ; 
Tliere's  none  believes  it  noo,  lassie, 
But  fules  like  you  an'  mc  ' — 

tak  the  P'.per  back,  Reuben," — and  foldinc  it  care- 


P 

it 


158 


THE    UNDERTOIV 


i  f 


fully  he  handed  it  to  his  son,  who  in  turn  bore  it  to  its 
hiding  place. 

"  May  I  a/k-  yc  a  question  or  twa  aboot  yir  kirk  ?  " 
Robert  VVishart  ventured,  breakuig  a  long  silence. 

"  \Ve'll  be  glad  to  give  you  any  informatici  we 
can,"  said  Mr.  VVh.  -icy,  rising  as  he  spoke.  "  I'm 
afraid  our  time  is  almost  up." 

"  Div  ye  teach  the  Shorter  Catechism  to  the  bairns 
i'  the  Sabbath-schule  ?  " 

"  I  thmk  so.  Of  course  the  superintendent  looks 
after  that.  We're  thinking  of  paying  him  aspjary  " 
said  Mr.  Whitney. 

"  Hae  ye  a  guid  precentor  for  1i,e  psalms  ?  "  pressed 
the  interrogator. 

"No,  we  don't  have  a  precentor,"  replied  Mr. 
Alger.     "  We  have  a  paid  quartette." 

"  Ye'll  hae  an  organ  tae  ?  "  pursued  Robert  Wis- 
hart. 

"  Oh,  yes,  a  three-manual  organ,"  replied  the  other 
-■  •  It's  run  by  water,  you  know." 

"  Water  an'  wind  to  praise  the  Lord ! "  the  host 
muttered  to  himself.  "  How  mony  times  a  year  do 
ye  hae  the  sacrament  ?  "  he  asked  aloud. 

"  Every  three  months-once  a  quarter,"  said  Mr. 
Whitney-.,  we  have  the  individual  cups,  of  cuurse  " 
"It's  ower  often-ifs  no'  helpfu'  to  reverence  to 
hae  It  sac  often.  Once  a  year  was  the  way  in  my 
faither's  kirk  in  Kelso.  An'  I've  heard  o'  thae  ither 
things— thae  cups  ye  speak  o'.  Ye'll  be  feart  o'  yin 
anither's  insides  ?  "  he  suggested,  smiling  grimly. 
"  No,  not   e.xactly  that,  Mr.  Wishart,"  the  other 


The    CHURCH   of    -J he    CONEXANT 


'59 

rejoined,  lauj^liinj^  as  he  spoke ;  "  but  in  these  days 

of  advanced  .scientific " 

"  Do  ye  hae  the  la-st-day  afore  the  sacrament  ?  " 
interrupted  his  examiner,  not  being  in  a  scientific 
mood. 

"  A  fa>t-day  ?  I  don't  recognize  the  word.  What 
does  it  mean  ?  " 

"  It  docsna  maitter — ye  wadna  unncrstand,"  re- 
phed  Robert  \Vi,-,hart. 

Their  ii(j>t  walked  with  them  to  the  .^ate.the  moon 
shining  bright  upon  his  silvered  hcatl  as  he  gravely 
thanked  them  for  the  courtesy  nf  then-  visit,  assuring 
them  he  would  tell  Stephen  about  it  when  he  wrote. 

"  Onywaj-,  I'm  liopin'  ye'll  get  a  guid  minister  to 
yirsels  i'  the  Covenant  Kirk,"  he  went  on  in  graver 
vein.  "  A  man  that'll  feed  ye  wi'  the  true  bread  o" 
^i'^'-' — 'I  flock  wi'oot  a  .-.hepherd's  a  sair  thing.  Oor 
kirk  here  has  had  but  twa  i'  my  day.  Weel,  I 
mauna  keep  ye,  haverin'  awa'  like  this.  Guid-nicht, 
Mr.  Whitney  ;  an'  guid-nicht,  Mr.  Awlger.  Thank 
ye  for  yir  veesit— an'  safe  hame !  I'll  write  to 
Stephen.     Guid-mcht,  again." 


1 


IM 


I 


XIII 
^    LIGHT  ni    The    H/ / N D O IV 

THE   visitors   disappeared   in   the   darkness. 
Keuben  Icadin-  tiie  way  across  the  fields 
Mr     X ,         '•'  "^  '''^,  ""^"^  "''"''  "°  '■°°''  ^^'hitney,-  said 

^eh/r   k\"  '  k     "  T""  "  ^^^>'  ^-''^^d  -  to- 
gether  Reuben  bemg  detained  a  moment  to  replace 

some  bars  through  wh.ch  they  had  just  passed.  ^ 

He  s  anythmg  else  but  that."  asserted  the  other  • 

I    only  hope  he'll  say  as  much  for  us  when  he' 

wn  es  that  letter  he  talks  about.     If  the  young  fe' 

lows  a  ch.p  of  the  old  block.  I'm  afraid  he'll  be  no 

easy  one  to  manage.     He  hews  to  the  line-the  old 

At"  Wt  l'~'T,  '  '°"''  *''"'  ''''  ^°"  '^  ^'^-  him. 
At  least  I  wouldn't  judge  so  from  what  we  saw  of 

itla  V  ""r^^-  "  *°  '^'  ''"'  '"  '■'■^^h^-but  I  fancy 
t^  a  very  d.fferent  line.  He's  not  old  fashioned 
hke  h.s  father.  You  remember  the  sermon  where  he 
told  us  Abraham  only  fancied  he  heard  a  voice  tell- 
.ngumtokillhissonP  The  old  man  would  have  a 
fit  If  he  heard  hmi  say  that,  wouldn't  he  ?  " 

"  Hed  kill  the  son  himself."  declared  the  other- 
Part  TlU  "  'f '-'"'  ^'"  "°"^^  P--^^''^^  the  voice 
part,  1 11  warrant  you. 

"  I  shouldn't  wonder." 

"  Do  you  know,  I  was  afraid  of  my  life  he  was 

1 6a 


^    LIGHT   tn    The    IVINDOU^'       i6i 

goin-  to  have  family  worship-they  have  lots  of  it 
in  the  country,  ycai  knou".  Wouldn't  it  have  been 
terrible  if  he  had  a.sked  one  of  us  to  lead  in  prayer  ?  " 
"  \\ouldn't  It.  thou-h,"  answered  his  companion  ; 
"  let's  Ir^'ht  a  ci.^^ar,  Alger,"  he  suggested,  feeling  the 
need  (jt  a  restorative. 

"  We  should  have  offered  one  to  the  old  man," 
said  Mr.  Alger,  as  they  walked  on,  bright  beacon 
lights  no'.v  burning  before  them  both.  ••  I  know  he 
smokes  ;  f,,r  I  saw  a  pipe  on  the  mantel— it  looked 
mighty  (j!d  and  strong." 

"  Ves,  I  know ;  I  smclled  it  as  soon  as  I  went  in 
—It  lo(jked  like  an  heirloom  in  the  family.  Hut  our 
friend  wouldn't  have  touched  a  cigar—too  modern 
for  him— as  bad  as.  the  new  theology.  Nothin"  but 
the  old  plug  for  him,  I'll  hold  you-the  same  as  his 
grandfather  smoked." 

Their  analysis  of  the  interesting  character  under 
discussion  was  interrupted,  their  guide  having  now 
rejoined  them  ;  and  they  walked  in  semi  silence  to 
their  destination. 

After  Reuben  had  bidden  them  farewell,  he  hur- 
ried to  the  post-ofTice,  finding  its  obliging  head 
m  process  of  preparation  for  retiring.  A  swift  de- 
scent below,  and  a  moment's  search,  brought  forth 
two  papers  and  a  letter  bearing  the  Wishart  name. 
The  indistinct  postmark  that  the  letter  bore  was 
scanned  in  vain— and  by  them  both— for  the  old 
post-master  took  a  personal  interest  in  his  clients, 
more  for  his  wife's  sake  than  for  theirs,  it  must  be 
told. 


^crasascsa 


1 62 


THE    UNDERTOIV 


I 


i 


a 


He  must  hurry  home,  thought  Reuben,  for  his 
father  would  be  waiting  for  him.  Crossing  the  fields 
again,  he  pressed  his  returning  way,  wondering  at 
the  probable  outcome  of  the  visit  that  had  so  agi- 
tated their  uneventful  life. 

His  eye  descries  a  light  in  the  distance — and  his 
heart  throbs  with  sudden  ardour— for  he  knows 
whose  hands  have  kmdled  it.  It  is  not  far  out  of 
the  way  ;  nor  would  it  much  detain  him  should  he 
turn  his  steps  aside.  Which  he  promptly  docs,  and 
is  soon  within  a  few  yards  of  the  window.  The  rest 
of  th':  house  is  luished  in  darkness.  A  gauzy  curtain 
screens  the  window,  but  not  sufficiently  to  prevent 
his  vision,  which  rests  upon  the  face  whose  beauty 
had  long  enthralled  him.  She  is  writing,  he  can  see, 
having  evidently  suspended  her  preparations  for  the 
night  to  indulge  in  what  is  a  pleasant  duty,  if  rapt 
attention  and  flushing  cheek  be  any  mark  thereof. 
Her  hair,  the  crowning  glory  of  her  form,  hangs 
about  her  shoulders  ;  her  eyes  are  fixed  upon  the 
paper,  diverted  now  and  then  to  a  letter  beside  her 
which  has  evidently  provoked  her  own.  And  once 
he  saw,  torn  with  maddening  tenderness  at  the  sight 
—once  he  saw  a  quick  gush  of  tears,  quickly 
staunched,  as  she  turned  again  to  her  writing. 

"  IJessie,"  he  called  gently,  "  Bessie !     You  know 
who's  calling,  Bessie." 

The  girl  started  suddenly,  wondering  if  she  liad 
heard  a  voice. 

"  Bessie,"  he  called  again,  more  softly  than  before; 
"  it's  me— it's  Rube— don't  be  afraid.     Can  you  come 


A    LIGHT   ill    The    IVINDOIV       163 

out  a  minute,  Bessie?     I've  got  something  to  tell 

you." 

In  an  instant  the  light  was  out  and  a  sweet  voice 

called  from  the  window,  now  partly  raised : "  Oh, 

Rube,  you  gave  me  such  a  start.  Is  there  anything 
the  matter?  I'll  come  out— just  wait  and  I  won't  be 
a  minute." 

SweetLT  than  cathedral  bell,  he  hears  the  rattling 
latch,  the  mu.^ic  of  the  creaking  door.  And  no  white- 
robed  priest  and  swinging  censer  were  ever  so  beau- 
tiful, and  so  fragrant,  as  the  fluttering  robe  that 
melted  the  darkness  through  which  she  passed  as 
she  hurried  to  where   le  stood. 

"  L  there  anything  the  matter,  Rube?  I  thought 
you'd  be  in  bed  and  asleep  by  this  time." 

"  No,  Bessie,  nothing  at  all — nothing  wrong.  I 
wanted  to  see  you — oh,  Bessie." 

Emotion  shook  his  fiame;  for,  though  he  knew  it 
not,  all  the  strong  forces  of  his  nature  were  kindled 
by  the  mystic  torch  that  the  night  carries  in  her 
shadowy  hand. 

"  Bessie,  my  darling,"  he  murmured,  as  he  sought 
to  hold  her  close  to  him  ;  "  come  to  me,  Bessie— why 
do  you  hesitate,  Bessie?  Aren't  you  my  own,  my 
very  own— come,  sweetheart  "—and  he  drew  the 
half-protesting  form  down  beside  him.  They  are 
sitting  on  a  rude  garden  seat ;  and  his  arm  is  about 
her  in  tenderucs-;.  "  Won't  you  tell  ine  plainly, 
Bessie,  that  it's  settled  once  for  all  ?     Tell  me  you 

love  me— and  toll  me  that  you'll " 

But   Bessie   interrupted — for   she   knew  what   he 


i^tm 


1i 

f, 

(' 

! 


I 


N 


164 


7/y£    UNDERTOIV 


was  about  to  plead.  More  of  sorrow  than  of  joy  is 
on  her  face.  Oh !  the  an-uidi  uf  a  maiden's  lieart 
that  knows  whom  she  ou^^ht,  and  whom  she  strives, 
to  love ;  yet  knows  another,  whose  face  must  first  be 
banished  from  her  soul. 

"  Rube,  oh,  Rube,  is  this  what  you  brough:  me 
out  to  hear?  I  tliout^ht  you  wanted  to  Tell  me 
sometliinfj." 

Dark  though  it  was,  she  yet  could  not  fail  to  see 
the  pallor  that  overspread  his  face  at  her  words.  "  I 
don't  mean.  Rube,"  she  went  on.  playfully  lifting  the 
hand  that  had  fallen  from  her  neck  and  holding  it  to 
her  cheek ;  "  I  don't  mean  that  it  isn't  sweet  to  hear 
it,  Rube—but  I  was  so  busy— and  I  thought  you 
had  news  for  me." 

"So  I  have— I've  got  some  news  about  Steve. 
But  I  forgot  about  it  when  you  came  out  to  me 
through  the  dark.  Oh,  Bessie,  it's  so  hard  to  tell 
what  it  means — but  to  have  any  one  you  love  com- 
mg  to  you  nearer— always  nearer— coming  on  through 
the  dark ! "  and  Reuben's  face  glowed  in  the  night, 
illumined  by  a  heart  as  pure  as  loving. 

She  moved  slightly  from  him,  turning  to  look  into 
his  face.  ••  Stephen  ! "  she  said— and  her  tone  was 
low—"  what  news  have  you  of  Stephen  ?  " 

A  momentary  disappointment  cast  its  shadow  over 
Reuben's  face;  for  he  had  thought  she  too  would 
have  given  first  place  to  other  thoughts  than  those 
that  were  linked  to  tidings  of  another— and  he  so  far 
away.  But  his  pride  in  his  brother  was  great  and  he 
was  well  pleased  that  others  should  share  it  too. 


r 


-1' 


I 


^/    LIGHT   in    The    IVINDOU^       i6s 

"  Ilc'a  iiad  a  great  honour — Stcvc',->  been  offered  a 
call  to  Hamilton — to  the  Church  of  the  Coveii.int. 
Two  of  the  officers  of  the  church  were  at  our  huii-,e 
this  eveniii;^.  1  m  just  on  my  way  home  from  seeing 
them  to  the  station." 

ISe-^.-^ie's  eyes  were  shininjr.  And  poor  Reuben 
thought  their  h;;ht  was  all  of  pride  alune. 

"The  Ciuirch  of  the  Covenant !  Is  Stephen  to  be 
their  miiiiiler  ?  I  can  lurdly  believe  it — 1  was  there 
once;  and  1  never  saw  such  a  lot  of  ri^.h  and  fashion- 
able p!.i>[)le.  It  w;is  when  1  u  as  at  the  exhibition,  a 
year  a^o  la.-t  autumn,  it  must  be  splendid  to  live 
amon^  such  lovely  folks — does  Stephen  know?  "  and 
IJessie's  face  j^loued  with  ea^'er  interest. 

"  N  ),  I  don't  think  he  does,"  Reuben  answered, 
his  joy  in  hi-  brother  heightened  by  the  enthusiasm 
of  the  girl.  "  They're  going  to  give  him  a  regular 
call,  I  think ;  but  of  course  they'll  write  to  him  right 
away." 

"  I'll  tell  him  first  " — and  Bessie's  chin  was  elevated 
after  a  deiiciously  teminine  fashion — "  I'll  be  the  frst 
to  tell  Stephen — I'll  pet  it  in  my  letter;"  and  invol- 
untarily she  glanced  toward  t!ic  window  that  a  min- 
ute ago  she  had  plunged  in  darkness. 

No  less  dK:c\>  was  the  darkness  that  clouded 
Reuben's  brow  as  her  last  words  fell  upon  his  ear-. 
Ii  was  a  moment  before  their  full  significance  bnjkc 
upon  him;  and  the  tingling  gladness  of  a  moment 
before  was  now  a  tingling  pam. 

"  You'll  put  it  where,  JJessie?"  he  a.-ked;  and  his 
tone  fnrf^;hn!'.>v.ed  the  answer  before  it  came. 


■5-:l 


166 


7 HE    UNUERTOU 


"  Ml  put  it  in  my  letter.  Reuben,  as  I  said— mv 

cttc.  to  Steve.  •  .he  added,  a.  bravei;  as  s  e  J.u" 

ouRh  her  vo,ce   fa.led  her  a  httlc.  the  pleadn,.'- ,' 

-  h.-nest   eyes  looku.,Mnto  eyes  that  4ed  t:" 
as  JKJiiest  as  his  own. 

Her  admirat.on  of  h.s  distant  brother-and  ot  his 

atcst  tnun,,h-,^ave  way  for  a  n^ornent  beflrc  Ton 

J>..,  hk-e  to  reverence  ,or  the  greatness  of  thL  slroL 

lovn,,.  heart,   u  hose  love  and  strength  ux       ucZ 

-ore  apparent    than   now.  nhen  his^yearn^;.   "^ 

were  fixed  upon    her  own.     Here    sh./bn  ^ 

pav,.,„„  hc.a„,  holy ,.,  .„  ^!Z[,^ ,::";,;:::;,: 

|hc  n„ghj  find  .hcltcr  til,  ail  ,„Vs  s.ornVwL  ,     " 

When  liessic  looked  shyly  up  a.  length,  she  saw 
he  m„,,„re  ,„  Kenben's  eyes;  and  a  nuv  i  i,y  ,TZ 
Its  place  within  her  heart. 

■■kube,"she  be(;an,"lies  your    own  brother"  a 

.rer';:i:r" '■"'"'=■■*-"«  •>"'>-'p-'«* 

Hut  Keuben  k„ew_and  Ihc  vision  of  the  lioMed 
wmdow  was  still  before  h,s  mind.  The  ]Zt'f 
gle  was  swift  and  stern,  its  issue  soon  dccL  ^~ 


W    LIGHT    tn    7 h r    IV /.YD on/       ,07 

"  HcMc,"  lie  bc-an  prL-cntiy,  lus  l,p  ciuivcrin-  .is 
he  .^pokc— -Stuvi's  a  Jar  greater  man  tiian  I  am— 
and  better  too.  But  oli.  He>Me.  n.,budy  l.-ves  you 
like  nie-but  Steves  worthier;  and  I  dunt  blame 
you,  lie>Me-I  don't  blame  you,  .\n(!  I'm  ^oinc 
home.  1  itiier'U  be  wantin-  n)e.  Good-bye,  Be.,.." 
—  1  ni  :4'fUiL;  iiome." 

He  .started,  looking  back  a.s  he  went,  still  peen.i  - 
through  tile  dark  into  the  pallid  face,  the  big  .,:n:'in;' 
orb.s  looking  wi^tf.illy  into  his  own.  SucT-cii:/  he 
turn.s  111,  away,  pre:,.-.ing  resolutely  Jorward.  tii  •  J.w 
gleaming  ,,n  the  long  grass  a,  he  went. 

Siie  can  ju,t  hear  his  heavy  footfall  now.  A,-  i  to 
another  heart  the  struggle  of  a  moment  ago  is  traii^- 
ferred. 

I'or  De-ie  has  looked  further  into  his  soul  than 
she  had  ever  looked  before ;  and  his  departure  had 
seemed  to  bring  !iim  near. 

Hi.s  shadowy  f.rm  is  almo.t  lost  in  darkness, 
denser  than  it  was  a  moment  ag.^ ;  the  distance  be- 
tueen  them  .cems  strangel)-  great-the  ocean  not 
more  wide— and  a  different  loneliness  takc-s  posses- 
sion of  her. 

She  start.s  and  runs  a  few  steps  in  the  direction  he 
has  gone.  She  st..p.,.  .till  peering  eagerly.  Then 
she  tries  to  call  his  name—but  her  voice  refuses  to 
venture  far,  fearful  ot  the  nigh.t. 

She  knows  lie  is  a!mo>t  beyond  her  c.U! ;  and  tlie 
voice  is  clearer  now  :  — 

"Reuben,  oh,    Reuben,"   she    cries,  "come  back 
Reuben."      Ihen  ^he  waits,  declaring  to  herself  thai 


r 

U 


w^mf^. 


^l1 


168 


7 HE    UNDERTOH^ 


■^'■M-&\ 


ic  could  not  licar ;  and  tliat  he  would  not  answer  if 
1K--  uid.  She  starts  violently,  for  a  sudden  n.;..e  has 
lallen  on  her  ear.  It  comes  from  a  different  quarter  ■ 
aud  Basic's  first  nnpulse  is  to  fly  to  tl'.e  door  she  has 
Icit  ajar  beiund  her.  15ut  there  is  no  tinie-for  the 
^ound  ,s  dist.ncter  nou-and  she  can  make  out  some 
fluffy  th.nj^r.  tearing  toward  her  fr..m  the  distant 
barn  wth  sharp  ydps  of  reco^rnition.  It  is  Tonk-o 
we  come  in  the  darkness-and  the  girl  pets  Inn,  as 

M  T  T'.  ''"' '  "  '''"''^ ""  ^'"^'^  ^'^^-  Tonko-guod 
Old  ionkc,  she  murmured,  half  caressing  the  re- 
sponsive animal  beside  her.  Then  she  fell  '.,  listen- 
ing again,  bidding  the  dog  be  still-and  her  hand 
trembles  on  hi.  head;  for  she  thinks  she  can  catch 
the  .ound  of  d.sta.it  footsteps.  A  mon.ent  longer 
She  listens— and  now  she  is  sure— sure  that  they  arc 
hurrying  too— and  tlie  hot  blood  leaps  to  iier  face. 

"  Go  home,   Tonko,"  she  orders  suddenly  •    •■  eo 
home,  I  say." 

I^cssie  is  alone,  alone  in  the  night,  one  hand  tightly 
held  u,  the  other  as  her  eyes  strain  to  detect  the  ob- 
ject of  her  search.  A  momentary  thought  of  Reuben's 
glowing  words-about  the  darkness-and  about  wait- 
ing for  another  to  come  to  you-flits  across  her 
mind  ;  and  she  herself  marvels  at  the  strange  eager- 
ness of  her  heart. 

Th.e  footfall  is  distinct  now-and  in  a  moment 
Reuben  emerges  from  the  dark.  Ik-  came  right  on 
till  he  stood  close  beside  her.  And  the  great  yearn- 
ing e>-es  again  sought  her  face. 

"  Vou  called  me,  Ikssie,"  he  said  quietly. 


A    LIGHT   in    The    H^  IN  DO  IV       \hq 


•'  Ves,  Reuben — I  called  you,"  she  answered  ;  "  I 
called  j'ou  back.  I  wanted  you  to  say  jjood-bye, 
Rube." 

"  To  say  good-bye  ?  "  he  repeated,  wonderingly. 
"  I  thoii<;ht  I  did— I'm  sure  I  did,  Bessie,"  he  con- 
cluded confidently. 

Ik'ssie  unconsciously  raised  her  hands  a  little,  a^.  if 
to  hold  tlicm  ft  nth — but  bhe  remembered — and  they 
hung  by  her  side.  Her  gaze  never  wandered  from 
his  face — but  her  lips  were  .still. 

"  I  thought  I  said  good-bye — I  know  I  did," 
Reuben  repealed,  breaking  the  silence.  "  Was  that 
all  you  had  to  say  <,o  me,  Bessie  ?  " 

The  girl  still  stujd,  looking  up  into  his  face.  Then 
she  spoke :  — 

"  Rube,  I  want  vou  to  say  good-bye  to  me — I  want 
you  to  say  good-bye  to  me,  Reuben  " — and  the  great 
illumination  shone  out  from  her  glowing  face. 

The  man  felt  the  night  growing  bright  about  him  as 
he  understood  ;  and  a  great  wave  of  surging  joy — the 
first  he  had  ever  tasted — seemed  rolling  to  his  lips. 

"  Oh,  Bessie,  Bessie,"  he  whispered,  looking  about 
him  one  moment  as  if  suspicious  of  the  dark  itselt  ; 
"  oh,  Bessie,  Bessie," — and  t'.ie  unresisting  lorin  is 
locked  in  the  clinging  arms,  the  fluttering  heart 
pressed  closely  to  his  own.  The  golden  hair,  pre- 
pared for  its  neglected  pillow,  falls  in  fugitive  strands 
on  his  own  neck  ;  and  h.e  feels,  but  dt)es  not  under- 
stand, the  emotions  it  awakes  within  him. 

"  Bessie,"  he  said  at  la.st ;  "  tell  me,  Bessie,  my 
darli  ig — was  it  for  that  you  called  nie  back  ?  " 


17© 


THE    UNDERJOIV 


^•^! 


1 


li 


i%J 


,1   :                 ;■: 

■  '. 

"3  .                   -3 

i   J 

Hut  his  only  answer  was  in  the  throbbing  heart, 
fluttering  closer  to  the  sheltering  heart  beside  it. 

"  Tell  me,  Hessie,"  he  pled  again ;  '<  tell  mc  you're 
my  own  liessie  forever,  "—he  sought  to  hold  her  out 
from  him  that  he  might  look  into  her  face  ;  but  she 
clung  close,  hiding  her  head  upon  his  shoulder— and 
the  answer  was  enough  for  Reuben's  long  hungering 
heart. 

"  You  are  cold,  my  darling,"  he  said  after  a  little  ; 
for  she  was  trembling  in  his  arms, 

"  I'm  not  cold,"  she  murmured—"  but  I  must  go 
in— come  with  me,  Reuben,"— and  together  they  be- 
gan the  walk  which  Reuben's  singing  heart  declared 
should  be  the  long,  long  walk,  with  no  ending 
evermore. 

At  the  door,  Bessie  turned,  burying  her  face  in  its 
former  hiding  place. 

'•  I  won't  send  that  letter,  Reuben,"  she  whispered  ; 
so  faintly  that  he  could  hardly  hear ;  "  I'll  burn 
it  up." 

"  Don't,"  said  Reuben—"  I  trust  you,  Bessie ;  or, 
if  you  do,  send  another  to  Steve.  It  might  hurt  him 
if  you  didn't— Bessie,  my  darling!"  And  again  he 
held  her  close.  "  Good-night,  my  dear  one— God 
bless  you,  my  Ikssie." 

Looking  back  across  the  field,  he  saw  the  light  re- 
kindled in  the  room.  .Still  gazing,  he  sees  another 
blaze— brighter  than  the  first.  It  has  died  out  in  a 
moment— and  he  understands.  Whereat  a  new  flame 
of  rapture  is  kindled  in  Reuben's  happy  heart. 


XIV 


A    HUMBLE   RiyAL 


I 


f 


ROBERT  WISH  ART  was  still  waiting  for  his 
son  when  the  latter  came  in  the  farmhouse 
door.  Various  duties  had  occupied  a  por- 
tion of  his  time,  the  rest  devoted  to  that  shoreless 
duty  which  furnished  the  comfort  and  inspiration  of 
his  life. 

The  open  Book  beside  him  spoke  its  character. 

"  Ye're  late,  my  laddie," — he  said  as  Reuben  en- 
tered— "  did  \hf.  veesitors  get  awa'  ?  " 

"Yes,"  answered  Reuben;  « at  least,  I  suppose 
they  did.  I  left  them  before  the  train  came  in — I've 
been  at  the  post-oPice,"  he  added  quickly  ;  for  there 
was  much  time  to  be  accounted  for. 

"  Oh,"  said  the  old  man — "  and  did  ye  get  ony- 
thing  ?  There  wadna  be  ony  word  frae  Stephen,  I 
suppose  ? " 

"  No,  there's  nothing  from  Steve,  father — but 
there's  a  letter,  though.  I  couldn't  make  out  the 
postmark — here  it  is." 

"  We'll  soon  find  oot  wha  it's  frae,"  his  father  said, 
tearing  the  envelope  open  as  he  spoke,  A  long 
silence  ensued  ,  for  the  old  man  was  not  so  niniblc- 
eyed  as  he  once  had  been. 

'•  It's  frae  Morven,"  he  'aid,  when  he  had  finished, 

»7i 


*.^'jim^^s^ 


nz 


7  HE    i'NDERTOW 


m 


handing  the  letter  to  Reuben.  ■•  And  it's  for  Stephen 
—and  a  wee  bit  note  lor  iiie.  a.kin'  nie  to  read  it  niy- 
sel'  and  send  it  lurrit  to  him— it's  a  i;rand  let  er,"  he 
concluded.  Tlic  yoiin;;er  man  ua>  i-ot  long  ,n  uak- 
ini;  him.self  master  ot  its  contents;  ami  thc^e  ueie 
soon  the  subject  ol   ea-er  discussion  by  them  both. 

••  Seems  kind  of  stran-e  that  both  the.c  invitations 
should  nave  come  the  same  day."  Reuben  remarked; 
••  the  one  from  tlie  big  city  chureh-and  tiie  other 
iiom  the  httle  counti)-  congregation- 1  daresay  it 
won't  take  Stephen  long  to  make  up  his  mind  which 
to  accept." 

'•  1  <hnna  ken  .iboot  that."  letiirncd  his  father,  nod- 
ding towards  tlie  letter.  ••  \cr^  nieanin'  he'll  tak  the 
Covenant  Kirk?" 

"  Ves.  1  shoukl  think  it  likely  he  will— it  seems  to 
have  many  advantages,  at  least,  tijat  one  wouldn't 
have  at  Morven.     Don't  you  think  he  will  ?  " 

"  There's  summat  to  be  said  aboot  the  iMorvcn  ad- 
vantages tae"_and  his  father  took  the  letter  in  his 
hand  as  lie  spoke  ;  "  it  depends  on  what  ye  ca'  an 
advantage."  he  continued;  "  it'.>  an  a.Kautage  to  hae 
godly  folk  abcot  )-e.  accorcnn'  to  my  way  o'  thinkin' 
—that's  what  he'd  hae  at  Morven.  judgin'  by  Uk  bit 
screed  they  -end."  Then  ihe  old  man  read  the  letter 
aloud.  >],ny\y.  ir.,ni  the  beginning  to  the  end;  paus- 
ing to  make  tlu-  :ujce-,sar\-  comment.^. 

'■  That's  a  fi-ie  bit :  ^-'  Wc  want  you  to  come  to  u.s 
in  the  power  of  the  (]o>pcl  and  ue  pray  that  such 
ma}'  bo  your  pornr.n  who- over  you  may  exercise  your 
ministry '-.sna  that  fair  graund,"  demanded  the  old 


9'" 
■  It 


A    tlUMBLE    Rl  yA  L 


•73 


man,  with  radiant  face — "that's  the  aiikl  way  o'  piit- 
tiii'  thac  thiiiL^s — it  minds  nic  o'  Samuel  Ruthertonl's 
letters.  Did  ye  tak  notice  to  the  phraseology  o  tluie 
nicii  tVae  the  city  ?  " 

"  X>>, "  s.ud  Reuben,  smilinj;  at  his  father's  inten- 
sity.    "  What  did  tiiey  say  ?  " 

" '  ]--xerci.se  jir  ministry,'"  his  father  mused,  re- 
peating the  words  upon  whicii  his  forefinger  lay — 
"  that's  fine — that's  what  thae  ither  men  was  meanin' 
when  they  said  it  took  a  smart  man  to  run  their  kirk 
— '  run  their  kirk,'  mind  ye," — he  went  on,  looking 
up  at  Reuben — "  *  run  their  kirk  ' — that's  the  new 
way — they  tell  me  they  dae  their  coortin'  noo  wi'  yin 
o'  thae  clatterm'  machines  for  writin"  letters.  Mair 
o'  their  pole-ish,  I  suppose." 

"  You're  thinking  of  those  typewriting  machines, 
father — they're  going  to  get  one  at  the  store.  15ut 
what  on  earth  have  they  to  do  with  running  a  kirk  ?  " 
Reuben  answered,  laughing. 

"  Machinnery  !  "  the  elder  responded  vigorously — 
"  it's  a'  machinnery  these  days — they've  got  machin- 
nery fur  the  sacrament  itsel' — they  and  their  indi- 
veedual  cups!  Machinnery  everywhere  !  And  the 
poor  folk  o'  Morven  has  naethin'— naethin'  but  the 
Holy  Ghost" — he  concluded,  nodding  toward  the 
letter  from  which  the  closing  words  were  (]uoted. 

"  It  certainly  is  a  lovely,  cordial  letter,"  began 
Reuben;  "I'm  sure  they're  kind-hearted  peoi)le;  a 
minister  would  find " 

"  Licht  the  ither  lamp,  Reuben,"  his  father  sud- 
denly  broke  in — "  and   get  the  pen   an'  ink  off  the 


>74 


THE    UNDER! O IV 


clock,  ril  write  to  Stephen  the  nicht— its  no'  sae 
late.  Ve'll  write  it  for  me,  Reuben;  an'  111  gie  ye 
the  points — my  hand's  owcr  shaky." 

"What  are  you  going  to  tell  him,  father?  How 
will  you  advise  him.  I  mean  ?  "  his  son  asked,  as  he 
prepared  lor  the  important  ceremony. 

"  ^Vil  mebbe  be  able  to  nuik'  that  cot  as  we  gang 
alang,"  the  old  man  replied  with  great  gravity. 

"  All  right,  father—I'm  ready— whafll  I  say  ?" 

"  Tell  him  I'm  livin'  an'  wecl— juist  look  aroon  at 
me  as  ye  get  it  doon." 

Reuben  recorded  this  important  initial  fact. 

"Tell  him  the  crops  is  likely  to  be  fine— the 
weather's  no'  been  agreeable  to  a'  the  folks— but  it's 
pleasin'  to  the  Almichty— get  ye  that  doon  ex- 
actly." 

"  I  have  it  down,  father— Stephen  won't  be  partic- 
ularly interested  in  that,  though.  Don't  you  think 
we'd  better  get  to  the  point  ?  " 

The  old  Scotchman  set  his  lips,  grimly  smiling  be- 
hind Reuben's  chair.  "That's  the  introduction,"  he 
retorted  firmly-"  it"!  prepare  him.  Tell  h^m  I  broke 
the  iron  bootjack  his  grandfaither  made— my  boots 
was  wet  wi"  the  r.-...,— but  the  smith  mendit  it  as  guid 
as  new.  He'il  find  it  refreshin'  to  hear  o'  thae  com- 
mon things  again— they'll  be  undressin'  wi'  machin- 
nery  i'  the  city.     Hae  ye  got  it  doon  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  the  amanuensis,  concealing  his  amuse- 
ment;  "it's  all   down.     Shall   I  tell  h.m  about  the 
groundhog  you  fired  at  and  missed  ?  " 
'•  Dinna  be  sae  frivolous,  Reuben.     It's  no'  a  time 


A    HUMBLE    RIl^AL 


»75 


^# 


^ 


1; 


for  jokin' — it's  a  striouij  maittcr,  choosin  yir'  place  i' 
the  vineyard  o"  the  Lord — an'  the  powder  was  bad, 
forbye — that  stuff  they  niak'  nooadays  is  guid  for 
naethm'." 

"  I  have  it  down,  father.     What  next  ?  " 

"  Ve  dinna  mean  aboot  ilie  yrunhog — that's  a  niait- 
ter   o'  nae  importance." 

"  Oh,  no,  of  course  not — the  last  important  thinpj 
I  wrote  was  about  the  bootjack.  What's  next  ? " 
Reuben  asked,  regulating  nis  features  by  vicious 
gnawin;^  at  the  pen-handle. 

"  Tell  him  aboot  thae  men  that  cjm'  to  je  at  the 
pleugh  the  day.  Tell't  yir  ain  way — a'  aboot  how 
they  cam'  to  the  hoose — an'  what  they  said  to  mc — 
an'  aboot  their  kirk.  Ye  ken  it  a' — set  it  a'  doon, 
Reuben  ;  I'll  wait  till  ye're  through." 

The  earnest  dictator  flung  two  or  three  fresh 
chunks  of  wood  upon  the  fire,  startled  into  sparkling 
protest  by  the  strange  proceeding ;  for,  like  those 
who  sought  its  cheery  company,  such  an  hour  as  this 
usually  found  it  blinking  its  way  to  the  realm  of 
dreams,  liut  it  was  soon  as  wide  awake  as  ever,  be- 
guiled from  its  drowsy  mood  by  the  long  familiar 
hand. 

Robert  Wishart  clapped  the  wood-dust  from  his 
fingers,  reached  forth  to  the  mantel  for  his  an- 
cestral pipe,  and  looked  defiantly  at  the  clock ;  for 
its  heightening  tone,  taking  advantage  of  the  silence, 
betokened  that  it  too  felt  the  same  shock  cf  wonder 
and  surprise  as  had  agitated  its  more  explosive  com- 
panion of  the  hearth.     And  the  latter,  catching  the 


176 


THE    UNDERTOl^ 


! 


:!    ^ 


symrftitlictic   note,  broke   into  comment  more  fiery 
than  bclore. 

I'or  these  were  age- old  friends—the  fire  and  the 
clock— eacli  looking  into  the  other's  tace  while  year 
came  slowly  after  year.  And  in  each  other's  c>  cs 
alone  they  found  no  sign  of  age  or  weariness,  smiling 
back  the  one  to  the  other  ■  .  unwnnkling  freshness 
while  lace  after  face  departed,  stamped  with  the  hand 
of  time  and  with  the  seal  of  care. 

And   many  a  colloquy  had  they  had  together— 
these  trusted  servants— after  their  ma.sters  had  sought 
their  rest.     Many  a  long  talk  in  the  old  kitchen_i,o 
other  voice  mingling  with  their  own— the  shadows 
having  their  recreation,  too,  playing  hide  and  seek 
about  the  room  like  happy  school-boys,  while  these 
two  monitors  held  grave  discourse  upon  the  human 
friends  whose  heavy  breathing  could  be  heard  above 
them.     Their  enterprises,  their  failures,  their  virtues, 
their  foibles  too— all  these  had  they  discussed,  the 
clock  playing  the  senior  part ;  for  it  had  been  old 
when  the  new-born  fire  first  saw  the  dark,  hailing  it 
an  enemy,  as  well-bred  fires  ever  do.     And,  strange 
to  ?ay,  it  wxs  the  younger  that  always  tired  first,  the 
older  noting  by  and  by  how  drowsily  it  answered  ; 
then  would  it  chime  its  mellow  lullaby,  and  go  all 
alone  upon   its  vigil  way.     All  alone— for  the  shad- 
ows were  the  children  of  the  fire,  and  crept  one  by 
one  into  their  mother's  bed. 

"  Hae  ye  that  doon  ? "  resumed  Reuben's  father, 
the  scraping  of  the  pen  coming  to  a  sudden  si- 
lence. 


A    HUMBLE    Rll^/IL 


•77 


Is 

if 


"Yes,  father;  I've  told  it  ;is  well  as  I  c;in — the 
pen's  not  j;ood  ior  much.     \\  luit  cunK>  next  ?" 

"It'll  dae  my  time — tell  him  t"  leaii  what  the 
Morven  folk  say — to  read  it  carefu'  ;  their  ietter'il  be 
inside  his  ain." 

Another  brief  silence  followed.  The  writer  looked 
around. 

"  Is  that  all  ?  "  he  said. 

"  Xo,"  responded  his  father;  "ye  tcU't  him  a' 
aboot  thae  men  Irae  the  city,  did  yc  ?" 

"  Yes,  I  told  him  about  their  cjininj^  here — and 
about  their  church." 

"  Did  ye  tell  hiiu  they  call  it  the  Kirk  o'  the  Cove- 
nant? "  he  pursued. 

"  Yes,  1  mentioned  it — I  suppose  he  likely  knows 
that  already." 

"  Wecl ;  tell  him  I'm  dootin'  they  think  mair 
aboot  their  kirk  as  they  dae  aboot  the  covenant." 

"  What's  that,  father?"  Reuben  asked,  in  mild  as- 
tonishment. 

"  It's  what  I'm  tellin'  ye.  Yon's  a  preat  name — 
the  covenant  name — it  has  martyr  bluid.  An'  they're 
playin'  wi't,  I'm  dootin'  " — answered  his  father,  no 
sifjn  of  compromise  in  his  voice. 

"  Very  well ;  I'll  write  what  you  say  " — and  Reu- 
ben recorded  the  opinion. 

"  Tell  him  the  stipend  they  pay  i'  the  city  kirk — 
they  mentioned  it  ten  timei  or  mair." 

"  I  did  tell  him  that,"  answered  Reuben. 

"  Tell  him  to  mind  the  rii~h  fulc — an'  tell  him  a 
man'>  life  is  no  i'  his  pocketbouk — an'  tell  hiiu  what 


i 
5 


1 78 


•THE    U\'DERTOiV 


11 


!■?< 


does  it  profit  a  man  to  ^.iin  the  w  iiolc  world  an  lose 
his  ain  soul." 

"  Tell  him  aboot  their  -acramcnt — hou  ilka  m.m 
ha.s  a  wcf  mu^;  to  hiinscl'.  Ihat'i:  settle  Stephen, 
I'm  thinkin*.  An'  tell  him  Sandy  I't^i  \  ih  tell't 
me  he  saw  twa  or  three  u'  them  kueelin'  c:  ion  i'  the 
kirk — they  had  wee  cushions  to  keep  t'.ic  dust  frae 
their  fine  breeks,  he  said.  An'  the  street  cars  was 
dingin'  and  dongin'  back  an'  furrit  afore  the  kirk 
door  on  the  Lord's  day — dinna  forget  to  tell  hini 
that." 

The  scribe  pressed  on  in  silence,  recording  one  by 
one  the  grim  details. 

"  That's  finished,  father.  It's  a  pretty  long  letter 
— is  that  all  ?  "  he  said,  presently. 

•'  Not  quite — tell  him  their  singers,  the  men  bud- 
dies, leastways,  wears  yin  o*  thae  coats  wi'  tails  that 
droop  like  a  turkey  gobbler's  i'  the  rain.  An"  they 
wear  them  i'  the  kirk — an'  tell  him  they  gie  them  an 
awfu'  heap  u'  money  for  their  screechin' — aboot  a 
shillin'  a  yelp,  they  tell  me — put  ye  that  dooii.  Reu- 
ben." 

"  All  right,  father— I'll  tell  him  they  have  paid 
singers.  He'll  luulerstand  the  rest — he's  surely  heard 
them  himself.     Shall  I  close  the  letter  now  ?  " 

"  Juist  ae  word  mair — say  as  how  they're  a  godly 
folk  at  Morven ;  an'  tell  him  they  hae  a  precentor 
wi'  the  fear  o'  God  in  his  hear*— an'  a  tunin'  fork  in 
his  hand — an'  a  decent  black  coat  on  his  back. 
Noo,  I'll  sign  it — gie  me  the  pen  when  ye  get  that 
doon." 


ik 


A    HUMBLE    RIl^AL 


"79 


a 
s 


Wliicli  he  straightway  took  in  his  rather  shaky 
hand,  -ictthng  hiiuaclf  carefully  in  the  chair,  one  foot 
P')ised  on  tip-toe  behind  the  backmost  run;^',  liis 
tongue  daly  appearing;,  witness  fur  fifty  year^^  to  his 
every  si;;nature.  Tiic  oiXTation  wa-i  iii  time  duly 
performed,  then  lavi-bhly  attested  by  a  subordinate 
flourish,  drawn  with  mathematical  exactitude,  and 
knotted  at  the  heart  by  two  ponderous  strokes. 

Reuben  had  folded  the  letter  and  enclosed  it  in  the 
envelope  ;  which  he  was  about  to  seal  when  his  father 
interrupted :  — ■ 

"  Reuben,  is  yin  o'  thae  paste  things  uny  harm, 
think  ye  ?  " 

"  One  of  what  ?  "  asked  Reuben,  bewildered. 

"  Yin  o"  thae  paste  things  they  put  at  the  hinner 
end  o'  a  letter.  I  dinna  ken  if  onybody  uses  them 
but  wuinman  buddies.  Brownie  Barrie  got  yin  o' 
them  frae  a  summer  boarder,  yon  wec'ow  buddy — 
wi'  the  lang  veil  an  'he  short  face,  ye  mind.  An' 
Brownie  tell't  me  ^t  meant  '  paste  something ' — I 
dinna  mind  exactly  what." 

"  Oh,  yes,"  laughed  Reuben  ;  "  of  course — it's 
'postscript'  you're  thinking  of.  Yes,  it's  all  right 
— if  you  want  one 

"  Aye,  that's  it — •  ;icrapit,'  Brownie  ca'd  it — he  said 
'twas  referrin'  till  the  pen.  It's  a  bonny  way  o' 
feenishin' — it's  like  haein'  anither  wee  bit  meat  put 
on  yir  plate  after  ye've  been  helpit."  And  the  old 
man  smiled  at  the  success  of  his  homely  illustration. 

"  That's  about  what  it  is,  father.  Let's  have  it,  and 
I'll  scrape  it  down,  as  Brownie  said,"  returned  the 


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'6b!    tos!    Wain    St-ee; 


i8o 


THE    UNDERTOIV 


vh 


\\     si; 


-..|.... 


cheerful    scribe,    removing    the    letter    from    its    en- 
velope. 

"  Put  it  foment  the  name,"  said  his  father,  pointing 

to  the  hard- won  signature. 

"  All  right.     What  is  it  to  be  ?  " 

"  1  lae  ye  the  tua  letters  set  doon  ?  " 

"  Ves,  they're  both  here—'  P.  S.,'  see?" 

"  Weel,  put  this  after  them  :_•  Yir  mither's  mebbe 

watchin'  ye.' " 

Reuben  wrote  the  words,  a  dim  mist  before  him, 
like  to  that  which  bedewed  his  father's  eyes. 
"  Now,  I'll  seal  the  letter,  shall  I,  father?  " 
"  There's  nae  hurry ;  leave  it  till  the  morn,"  an- 
swered the  other. 

When  the  morning  came,  Reuben  again  drove  his 
team  afield,  resuming  the  interrupted  labour  of  the 
day  before.  As  soon  as  he  had  gone,  his  father  took 
down  the  old  gun  from  the  rack  and  burrowed  in  an 
ancient  chest  till  his  quest  was  rewarded  with  a 
powder  horn  that  bore  a  Kelso  name;  then  he 
stealthily  set  forth  across  the  fields.  He  returned 
about  noon  and  quietly  replaced  the  gun. 

He  poised  himself  upon  the  chair,  as  previously 
described,  took  the  letter  from  its  cover,  glanced  at 
the  postscript— and  shook  his  head.  That  was  evi- 
dently not  the  proper  place.  His  eye  roamed  over 
the  manuscript  until  it  fell  upon  a  fairly  generous 
space  at  the  top  of  the  opening  page.  Whereupon, 
with  many  a  contortion,  he  inscribed  :_'<  M)-  sicht's 
as  guid  as  ever.  I  kill't  a  grunhog  at  forty  yard  the 
day.     R.  W." 


1.  J 


XV 

THE    GCNERAL  And   The   WAR 


THE  week  was  drawinjj  toward  its  closing 
hours,  that  week  whose  crown  and  glory 
was  to  be  Hattie's  solo  at  the  army  service. 
Once  during  its  course  had  Stephen  met  witli  her.  a 
long  walk  affording  him  a  yet  fuller  glimpse  of  the 
nature  whose  richness  he  found  so  grateful  to  his  own. 
For  Hattie  was  ripening  in  the  sunshine.  "  I  feel  as  if 
the  spring-time  had  come  to  me,"  she  had  said  as  they 
strolled  along  together,  "  and  there's  nothing  makes 
one  so  happy  as  not  trying  to  be  happy,  but  just  try- 
ing to  help  somebody  else,"  which  very  words 
Stephen  was  pondering  as  he  prepared  to  set  forth  to 
Poplar — and  to  Poplar's  song. 

He  was  interrupted  by  a  rap  at  the  door,  and  two 
letters  were  handed  to  him.  Strangely  enough,  they 
had  arrived  together,  the  communication  from  Ham- 
ilton about  the  Church  of  the  Covenant,  and  the  ap- 
peal from  Morven,  enclosed  with  his  father's  quaint 
and  sage  epistle.  Sudden  rapture  seized  his  heart  as 
it  grasped  the  portent  of  the  honour  the  city  church 
had  done  him,  tempered  but  slightly  by  the  claims  of 
the  smaller  congregation  or  by  the  admonitions  of 
his  father.  He  will  answer  these  letters  soon,  he  said 
to  himself,  the  one  to  Hamilton  to  be  written  first. 

i8i 


If 

6F 


I 

f  «  ; 


■iiA 


^ 


1 82 


THE    UNDERTOIV 


But  meantime,  his  engagement  at  Poplar  was  draw- 
ing nigh  :  and,  within  half  an  hour,  he  had  presented 
himself  at  the  oft-opening  door  of  the  Army  Home 

"  You're  in  great  good  fortune,"  one  of  the  soldiers 
said  to  him  as  he  presented  his  card—"  the  General's 
going  through  the  Home  this  evening -we  just  got 
vvord  of  It  a  few  minutes  ago.  We  never  know  when 
he  may  drop  in.  though  he's  the  busiest  man  in  Lon- 
don and  doesn't  get  around  very  often." 

"  The  General ! "  Stephen  cried  delightedly.  "  I'm 
in  luck  sure  enough-will  I  meet  him.  do  you 
think  ?  ' 

"  Certainly_the  Commander's  with  him ;  shouldn't 
wonder  if  she's  the  one  that's  bringing  him  down 
bhe  seemed  to  take  a  great  fancy  to  this  lady  friend 
of  yours." 

At  which  point  the  conversation  was  interrupted 
by  the  advent  of  this  selfsame  lady  friend,  who  sud- 
denly emerged  from  an  inner  room,  carrying  a  huge 
bowl  of  bread  and  milk.  She  smiled  at  Stephen 
"  You're  in  good  time,"  she  said-"  and  I'm  so  glad 
you  came.  Just  excuse  me  a  moment  till  I  take  this 
out  to  that  big  room  there.  It's  a  woman  with  a 
little  baby." 

Stephen  noted  in  amazement  the  change  in  Hattie's 
appearance ;  her  former  garb  had  been  removed,  and 
in  Its  place  she  had  assumed  the  uniform  of  the  great 
army  to  whose  midnight  tent  she  had  turned  for 
shelter.  More  fascinating  than  before,  she  appeared, 
in  th,s  new  guise  she  had  adopted,  its  honest  blue 
according  well   with   her  delicate  complexion,  her 


•THE  GENERAL  Ami   The   [VAR  i8? 

sunny  hair  showing  fair  against  its  darkness.  Tlie 
significant  letters  were  upun  her  shoulder,  the  little 
steel  chain  still  to  be  seen  upon  he;  neck,  its  ap- 
pended burden  hidden  beneath  her  dress. 

"  Don't  you  want  to  come  and  see  the  baby  ?  "  she 
laughed,  disappearing  while  Stephen  waited,  too  em- 
barrassed to  reply.     But  a  few  moments  had  passed, 
however,  when  he  followed  her  into  the  large  room 
whither  she  had  gone,     A  pretty  sight  greeted  him. 
The  mother— not  more  than  eighteen  years  the  senior 
of  her  child— was  standing  back  a  little,  rapt  in  the 
contemplation  of  her  ofiTspring,  warmed  to  the  heart 
by  the  evidence  of  its  comfort,  especially  enraptured 
by  this  token  of  interest  from  one  whose  face  and 
mien  bespoke  the  superiority  of  her  station.     For 
Hattie  had  the  baby  in  her  arms  ;  or,  at  least,  in  her 
left  arm,  the  right  disengaged  for  the  service  in  which 
it  was  employed.     Her  face  shone  as  she  watched  the 
hungry  infant,  so  pathetically  abandoned  to  the  long- 
lacked  luxury  of  an  abundant  meal,  careless  alike  as 
to  whence  it  came  or  the  improbability  of  its  beii.g 
soon  repeated.     It  cared  for  nothing  but  the  blissful 
fact  of  present  favour  ;  for  which  fa^-our  it  seemed  to 
feel  under  obligation  to  nobody,  smacking  its  lips  in 
complacent  satisfaction,  craning  its  neck  to  meet  each 
returning  spoon*"  '    sounding  an  initial  note  of  pro- 
test  when  the  in.     .al  was  accidentally  prolonged. 

When  he  regained  the  outer  hall,  high  excitement 
met  him  everywhere.  Everything  put  to  rights, 
spickness  and  spanness  on  every  hand,  betokened  ex- 
pectation of  some  unusual  guest. 


k 


,1. 


^«f 


1 84 


THE    UNDERTOIV 


"  The  General's  here,"  announced  his  former  in- 
formant in  an  undertone.  "  There  he  is  now-com- 
mg  m  with  the  Commander." 

Steplien  turned  his  gaze  toward  the  door;  and  it 
fell  upon  one  of  the  conspicuous  figures  of  the  cen- 
tury.    The  General  had  just  entered  and  was  looking 
genially  about,  his  air  that  of  one  returning  fro,n  a 
far  journey,  who  had  left  his  house,  and  had  given 
authority  to  his  servants,  and  to  eve.y  man  his  work 
and  commanded  the  porter  to  watch.     His  expression 
ZZ     u\1u^  P'-^Pnetor.a   kindly  proprietor.it   is 
true-but  the  ruhng  spirit  of  the  institution  he  had 
so  animated  by  his  advent.    Eagle-eyed,  there  was  yet 
something  in  his  face  that  betrayed  the  tenderness  of 
which  his  fame  is  born. 

The  glance  which  Stephen  saw  him  cast  about  the 
place   seemed   to   fall  like  lightning  on  every  part 
searching  every  corner,  laying  bare  its  every  feature  ' 
yet  It  seemed  to  be  altogether-or  almost  altoaether 
-centred  on  the  unhappy  mortals  who  had  "come 
crouching  to  the  door.      His  stalwart  frame,  borne 
with  the  easy  dignity  that  belongs  only  to  the  soldier 
heart;  and  his  strong  and  rugged  face-more  striking 
because  of  the  hair  of  iron-gray  and  the  beard  of 
flowing  white-made  it  easier  to  understand  ho-v  .he 
world  had  taken  kindly  to  his  military  title,  presump- 
tuous and  high  sounding  though  it  be.     The  true 
soldier  si^rit_an  admixture  of  strength  and  gentle- 
ness    looked  out  from  the  picturesque  face  Lard 
which  every  eye  was  turned ;  for  he  seemed  to  expect, 
as  he  certainly  received,  the  homage  of  every  heart 


rHE  GENERAL  And   The   WAR  ,85 

that  had  come  to  receive  his  benefaction  or  hastened 
to  obey  h.s  word.  Salute  after  salute  was  prornntlv 
returned;  w.th  some  of  those  nearest  to  him  he  shoot 
hands  m  hearty  greeting 

-there,  hat  one  with  the  fair  hair-just  coming 
through  that  door.     Isn't  she  sweet  ?  "  ^ 

The   General  smiled   as    his   glance   followed  his 
daugh  er's.     Not  over  sanguine  was   the  smile     fo 
he  old  soldier  was  not  easily  beguiled  by  sunny  boks 
and   winsome    faces,   so   many   of    which   nL   h„ 
awakened  his  deeper  pity.  ''"* 

''  Is  the  grace  of  God  in  her  heart,  my  child  >  -  he 

He    could   not   analyze  the  efiTect-but  he  was  im- 
pressed  and   charmed   by  the   reality  of  th     ton" 

houh  he  could  not  have  told  what  was  so  effe  "ve 
about  the  simple  speech.     The  General  had  asked  tWs 
information  as  a  teacher  m.rrhf  »,, 
pupil's    standing  r.^     ^''^  enquired  for  his 

pupils    standing,  or  a  physician   for    his  patient's 

^^He^rained  his  ea,.  to  catch  the  Commander's  an- 

I  ha?/ln'  'tTu'  ''"^  '"'  ''''''  ^"  "Sht  that  way. 
I  had  a  long  talk  with  her;  we  didn't  speak  much 

"dl    '"'^-'"^^'^^^''^^ 

some  :;her  r!"^  ^°  '''  ^^^^"  ''^  "^  ^>'-^"^  -cl 

abZit'^v'''  ^he  sing?"  the  General  interrupted 
abruptly  his  piercing  eyes  fixed  on  Hattie  rather 
than  on  his  daughter. 


■Ji 


i 


'■■•--    "X.TT'  ''-K'-'tif.'. 


186 


THE    UNDERTOW 


"  Really,  I've  almost  forgotten — oh,  yes,  it  was'  the 

Wondrous    Cross  ' ;    I    remember   now — and " 

The  Commander  went  on  with  her  story ;  but  the 
General  did  not  seem  to  hear.  Fur  off  and  absorbed 
was  the  look  that  suddenly  carne  into  the  powerful 
eyes,  and  a  musing  smile  pla>'ed  on  the  warlike  tacc. 

"  The  Wondrous  Cross,"  he  murmured  ;  "  there's 
really  nothing  else  to  sing.  What  a  marvellous  ex- 
pression, 'the  Wondrous  Cross;  the  Wondrous 
Cross'!  Bring  the  girl  here,  daughter— she  looks 
confused,"  he  said  aloud. 

As  undoubtedly  she  did  ;  for  poor  Hattie  had  marked 
that  the  General's  eye  was  resting  full  upon  herself. 
That  it  saw  her  not,  she  might  not  know ;  nor  the 
great  reverie  that  explained  its  almost  rigid  gaze. 
She  felt  the  power  of  its  spell,  however,  unconsciously 
surrendering  to  the  gi^nt  soul  that  looked  out  from  it 
like  some  hero  from  the  window  of  a  tov.er.  She 
half  realized  that  one  of  earth's  greatest  was  before 
her ;  for  it  is  the  pure  in  heart  that  are  the  quickest  to 
descry  God's  true  lieutenants,  as  it  is  they  who  behold 
Himself. 

The  Commander,  beckoning,  took  a  step  or  two 

toward  her : — "  Come  away,  miss I've  forgotten 

the  name.  But  I  don't  need  it  anyway — come  here, 
Hattie.     I  want  to  introduce  you  to  the  General." 

Hattie  stepped  timidly  forward,  the  empty  bowl 
still  in  her  hand  ;  her  very  arm,  bare  to  the  elbow, 
telling  forth  the  embarrassment  she  could  not  hide. 
The  Commander  presented  her  to  the  General,  who 
took  her  hand  in  his,  nor  released  it  while  he  spoke. 


'f*l|fc 


.  t'«  ■ 


■^iiiP} 


•THE  GENER/IL  And    The   IVAR 


187 

Hattic 


"  Hattie,  ch  ?  What  is  your  otlicr  name  ? 
Hastic,'  what  a  pretty  name!  They'll  be  -lad  to 
have  it  in  the  Hook  of  lite,  wont  thej-  ?  "  he  ^aid 
smihng.yet  with  nothing  but  earnestness  in  his  vmce. 
"  What's  this  ?  "  he  enquired,  lookin-  at  the  empty 
dish  in  Ilattie's  other  hand. 

"  It's  a  bowl,  sir,"  the  girl  answered,  looking  shyly 
up  at  the  beetling  brow  and  the  kindly  eyes  above 
her—"  I  was  giving  some  bread  and  milk  to  a  baby." 

"  That's  a  true  soldier,"  the  deep  voice  returned ; 
"looking  after  the  wounded— and  if  a  cup  of  cold 
water  gets  its  reward,  what  won't  it  be  for  a  bowl  of 
bread  and  milk?  "he  continued,  as  he  released  his 
hold. 

Hattie  was  about  to  press  on  with  her  burden,  her 
shyness  retreating  like  mist  before  the  sunshine  of 
those  earnest  eyes,  when  the  Commander  asked  :— 
"  Where  is  your  friend.  Hattie-the  one  you  were 
going  to  brin'T    o  n-eet  me,  you  know  ?  " 

There  h  ;ie  answered,  pointing  to  where 

btephen   st      i      .     le   a    couple    of  the   soldiers- 
"over  there  aesk.     May  I  present  him  now  ^  " 

U  hich  was  immediately  accomplished,  the  Com- 
mander bidding  him  a  gracious  welcome,  and  the 
General  proceeding  to  further  examination. 

"  What's  the  name,  again  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Wishart— Stephen  Wishart,"  answered  the  young 
minister.     Then  he  added  a  word  or  two. 

"Oh,    you're    a    clergyman?     Isn't   that   good? 
You're  not  very  clerically  dressed,  are  you  ?  " 

"  I'm  on  a  holiday."  answered  Stephen,  smiling. 


ri 


1 88 


THE    UNDERTOH' 


The  Gencrar.s  eyes  tuiiikkd.  "  Dangcrou.  thin-.. 
thcsj  hohdayb."  he  said  ;  "  I  never  ri.k  any  i.iNscll— 
haven't  for  llnrty  years.  Wdl.  niy  boy,  if  you're  less 
clerical  outside,  try  and  be  more  clerical  inside— that 
was  my  principle  uhen  I  d.jHed  the  black  and 
donned  the  blue.  Vou  knou-  I'm  a  minister— even  if 
I'm  not  a  reverend  any  more;  that  went  v.  itl,  the 
black,  when  the  blue  swallowed  it  up-'  mortality 
swallowed  up  of  life.'  eh  ?  "  he  suj;o,.sted  lau-hinj;. 

"  I  don't  know  about  that."  venture.l  Stephen  • 
"you  see,  I'm  a  minister  .,f  whaf<  reallv  the  ancient 
Churcn  of  Scotland.  So  I've  more  or  le»  oi  the  ec- 
clesiastic in  me." 

"  Never  mind  the  ancient  church,"— the  General 
broke  in— '<  London's  heart  is  rottin-  whil--  many 
who  should  be  her  spiritual  leaders  are  delvmtj  and 
disputing,  trying  to  make  a  coupling  with  the  ancient 
church— and  tryin.c^  to  uncouple  ever>b()d>-  else.  It's 
all  moonshine.  Give  me  the  living  dog  and  the)-  can 
have  their  dead  lion.  If  I  can  get  a  slice  of  apostolic 
success,  they're  welcome  to  Iheir  apostolic  succes- 
sion—are you  settled  over  a  church  yet  ?  "  he  di- 
gressed. 

"  Xo.  I'm  not."  responded  Stephen  ;  "  but  I've  had 
a  couple  of  calls  ;  and  I  wish  you'd  give  me  your  ad- 
vice—I'd  like  to  tell  you  about  them  both."  ' 

"  All  right,  I'll  be  glad  to  hear  about  them.  But 
meanwhile  come  away  in  with  us  and  have  a  bite  of 
supper.  I  always  dine  with  the  ofificers  at  the  differ- 
ent branches  \shen  I  get  a  chance— come  awa\-." 

Which  Stephen  was  glad  to  do.  following  the  Gen- 


r 


&'■*:■!&;-  >:^*»-i3lX2xa»ilK^ 


■THE  GLXilRAL   Aiui    Tin-   IVAR  189 

eral  to  ;i;i  adjoininj^  room    uh^-rc    they    found   the 
othfiN  already  -atlicrcd,  awaiting,'  !  \  arrival. 

"  Wlio'.>  to  do  tlic  speaking' to-ni-iit  at  the  women's 
meetin-.  dau-luer  ?  "  the  General  presently  enquired. 
"\ouVe  not  -oin^'  to  put  all  the  work  on  the  ulJ 
man,  are  \-..ii  ?  " 

'•  Xo,  we're  not,"  rci)lied  his  dau^'htcr.  "  althoui^'h 
we  ah.a>s  exi)ect  a  lew  words  from  you,  you  know. 
But  we're  to  have  an  address  from  the  Reverend 
/Emihus  Co>-rove  ;  he's  a  lV<;fessor  of  l-lxe-esis  in 
some  colle-e  in  Canada,  and  he  brou-ht  a  letter  of 
introduction  from  Commissioner  Coombes.  He 
wanted  to  study  the  work,  he  said,  and  he  said  too 
that  he'd  like  to  address  the  women.  So  we'll  have 
you  both." 

A  few  minutes  later  they  arose  and  went  all  to- 
gether to  the  spacious  room,  already  nearly  filled  with 
the  picturesque  congregation  that  was  to  form  their 
audience.  Some  were  standing  by  in  sullen  misery  ■ 
some,  engrossed  with  ragged  skirts  they  were  dumbly 
pretending  to  repair;  some  were  arranging  dishev- 
elled locks  ;  while  others  were  still  greedily  engaged 
on  the  thick  slices  of  bread  ?  butter  which  had 
been  given  them.  A  few  mo.e  lightsome  spirit 
were  employed  in  conversation,  broken  by  the  shrill 
cacophony  of  heartless  laughter. 

But  the  most  interesting  of  all— and  most  redemi,- 
tue  of  the  womanhood  that  s-  >med  all  bruised  and 
stained  about  them— were  these  who  had  wandered 
in.  carrying  infant  children  in  their  arr  i.  Even  the 
most  degraded  of  these.  Stephen  could  not   fail   to 


if 


^■si-.'eairww -afe.  I?  - » = 


"I 


^1i 


IC)0 


THE    UNDERTOIV 


notice,  had  tcndc.  softness  in  tlicir  faces  ;  and  some- 
thing; hke  music  in  tlie  voices  t!iat  ulii.-,pcred  tlie  old 
sweet  notliin^'s  to  the  babes  u\H)n  llicir  breasts,  sin- 
bcj^otten  thou^'h  the\-  were. 

And  .some  were  nourishing;  tlieir  oti-print;  at  their 
bosoms,  the  hard  and  sin-stained  face>  bearing'  tlie 
light  of  peace  tiie  while— even  of  a  nceting  purity— 
as  tliough  the  baby  lip,-,  were  drawing  tile  poison 
from  the  wound. 

Like  blighted  trees  they  seemed,  lightning  riven, 
stark  and  bare  and  frowning  amid  wintry  uiiui.^  ;  yet 
with  one  redeeming  bloxsom,  significant  d  the  salva- 
tion with  which  they  migiit  be  e\  en  >et  redeemed. 
I- or  the  light  of  heaven  p!a)ed  upon  tiie  solitary 
bloom,  spreading  its  caress  about  the  frowning 
trunk,  sweetly  whispering  that  its  spring-time  too  was 
not  forever  past. 

Stephen  gazed  long  upon  the  unfamiliar  spectacle, 
his  e>-es  wet  with  tears  as  he  beheld  the  great  passion 
which  sin  and  struggling  poverty  had  been  power- 
less to  destroy.  His  heart  swelled  with  emotion  as 
he  remarked  how  more  than  one  of  the  poor  wastrels 
laughed  with  fond  gladness  as  she  looked  into  her 
baby's  face,  or  clasped  it  in  a  spasm  of  tenderness  to 
her  heart. 

He  turned  and  looked  at  the  General  beside  him. 
The  latter,  too,  was  watching  the  scene  int*^'  itly ;  and 
an  observer  would  have  said  that  ht  hau  ..ever  wit- 
nessed it  before.  For  his  eye  was  eloquent  of  pity 
as  he  looked,  even  of  fondness  ;  and  the  almost  im- 
perceptible quiver  of  the  strong  lip  lit  up  the  rugged 


THE  GENERAL   And   The   H^AR 


191 


face  uitli  \U  -^rfat  sujiscstion,  a.s  tiic  f^ent!'    lightning 
of  the  ■■'prin^  lights  up  suiiic  noble  proniumur)-. 

The  thoL^^'it  flashed  swiftly  throuj^h  Stei)hcn's 
mind  that  lie  ua.i  beholdinf^  the  secret  of  thi.-.  <^'reat 
man's  power — his  helplessness  before  distress,  iiis 
clii\alric  pity  fur  the  wouiuled,  his  Godlike  search  f  >r 
outcast  royalty,  his  sensitive  perception  of  tli  .)- 
mantic  side  that  belon^'s  even  to  tiie  ^ro.-isest  :.in  and 
the  mo>t  despairing  sorrow. 

Tile  General's  eye  met  liis  ov.i  "  Isn't  that 
beautiful?"  he  said,  pointin;^  in  one  or  two  du'c- 
tions  ;  "  they  fflcn  wonder  why  1  don't  fjet  old,"  he 
continued,  "  but  they  wouldn't  wonder  if  they  knew 
all  I  see  that  keeps  the  heart  youn;^."  And  Stephen 
marvelled  at  the  absolute  f^entleness  that  wa>  on 
the  ru<,'^ed  face  as  it  looked  out  upon  the  motley 
throng. 

"  if  a  man  doesn't  feel  tiie  spirit  of  Christ  here,  I 
don't  know  where  he  will,"  the  veteran  concluded. 

"  You're  right,  sir,"  answered  Stephen,  his  own 
voice  shaking  a  little  ;  "  I'd  love  to  be  able  to  help 
those  poor  creatures — I  pity  them  so." 

"  I  love  them,"  the  other  exclaimed  abruptly  ;  "  we 
read  of  One  who  had  compassion  on  the  multitude — 
that  doesn't  mean  mere  pity,  sir  ;  it  means  love,  pure 
love.  And  if  you  want  to  be  a  successful  mini>ter, 
or  a  happy  one — which  is  the  same  thing — pra>-  for 
love,  love  for  souls — and  the  most  love  for  the  worst 
ones.  When  God  wants  to  draw  His  servants  very 
close.  Me  baits  His  hook  with  the  vilest  sinner  He  can 
find.     If  you  jump  at  that,  you'll  get  your  reward, 


192 


•THE    UNDERTOIV 


my  son-bring  Gods  worst  rebels  in  ain-e  and  you'll 
get  your  bounty."  ^ 

"  Some  of  tlie  vilest  seem  to  com-:  in  to  you  here  " 

suggested  Stephen,  glancing  toward  the  women        ' 

"  |cs.  they  do,  thank  God,"  and  the  General's  eye 

IS    gleammg    now.     .-  But    there's    none  so  vile  that 

here  s  not  some  good  about  them-see  that  woman 

was  invir    "         '  ','     '^'"^^  '°"'^^  ^  ^^^  ^^^cast  who 
^vas  mvitmg  an  admiring  circle  to  feel  a  new  discov- 
ered   tooth   of    her   six-months-old.    the    proprietor 
resenting   the  familiarity.     .  See   the  lighf  on    tl  a 
woman's  faceP     Do   you  know  what  that   remmds 

"  No,"  said  Stephen,  "  I  don't  think  I  do  " 
"  Well  sir,  it  reminds  me  of  a  noble  vessel  I  once 
saw  in  the  St.  Lawrence  gulf.     It  was  a  wreck-a" 
most  sunken-and  the  waves  were  rolling  over  it 
ce  ebrating  their  victory.     But  the  poor  ship  had  a 
bell  on  Its  main  deck-and  I  heard  it  ring;  amid  all 
the  shame  and  overthrow,  that  bell's  music  was  as 
sweet  and  clear  as  ever.    It's  the  same  with  that  poor 
wreck  yonder-you'll  find  it  the   same  in  all  your 
nimistry-always    some    music    left.       You'll    find 
chimes    ,n  ruined   steeples-ask  God  to  teach  you 
how    to   make   them  ring   again- He'll    show   you 

As  Stephen  looked  into  the  glowing  face,  he  felt 
the  poverty  of  his  own  ideals  in  the  life-work  he  had 
Chosen.  How  different  this  from  the  gilded  vision  of 
^uccess  and  distinction  he  had  cherished,  intensified 
as  It  had  been  by  the  latest  prospect  of  a  rich  and 


■THE  GENERAL   Aud    The   WAR.  193 

cultured  con-rc-ation.  But  after  all.  he  thou-ht 
do  not  the  rich  and  fashionable  need  help  unto  their 
souls  as  well  as  the  poor  and  the  de-raded?  For 
his  heart  was  set  on  the  Church  of  the  Covenant 
and  much  thereunto  pertaining,  alien  all;  though  he' 
knew  it  nut. 

He  followed  the  simple  service  with  an  intensity 
of  interest  he  had  hardly  ever  felt  before,  eager  to 
discern,  if  discern  he  might,  the  secret  of  such  power 
over  human  consciences  as  this  man  seemed  to  have 
The    whole   service  seemed   to  be  of  the  utmost 
s.mpl,city_but  every  life   before  him  seemed  to  be 
in  the  custody  of  his  will.     A  few  lively  songs,  with 
refrains  of  almost  grotesque  variety,  but  all  somehow 
attuned  to  the  melody  of  the  Cross  ;  a  few  brief  un- 
conventional   prayers,  their    familiarity   grating   on 
Stephen's  academic  ear;  a  few  testi.  aonies  from  the 
latest  salvage— and  it  is  time  for  the  address 

Wherewith  the  Reverend  ^Emilius  Cosgrove  came 
forward,  beginning  his  homily  with  those  terms  of 
patronage  and  pity  so  exasperating  to  the  poor 

•*  If   it   hadn't   been    for   the    grace   of  God.   my 
sisters.  I  might  have  been    one  of  you  to-night  "  he 
gravely  assured  them   the  keener-minded  among  the 
women  starting  with  surprise  at  his  creati.c  fancy 
the    General   taking   shelter   behind   a   hymn-book' 
The  details  of  his  address  need  not  be  given ;  but  the 
general  drift  of  his  discourse  may  be   inferred   from 
the  General's   remarks,  these  being  made   after  the 
varied  worshippers  had  sung  a  hymn. 
"  And  now,  comrades,"  the  General  began  when 


^il 


A. 


1Q4 


THE    UNDERTOIV 


the  music  ceased,  "  one  sermon  at  a  meeting  is 
enough.  But  I  just  want  to  add  a  word — I'm  not 
hke  the  last  speaker,  for  Im  just  the  same  as  you, 
just  the  same,"  he  repeated,  "  and,  owing  to  the  love 
of  God,  you  and  I  stand  even  to-night — for  we're  all 
sinners  saved  by  grace.  And  we'll  be  the  same  when 
we  get  home.  We're  all  miracles,  ever}-  one— and 
speaking  of  miracles,  my  brother  will  let  me  say  that 
those  scripture  ones  actually  happened,  every  one  of 
them.  They're  happening  yet,"  he  went  on  ;  "  and 
I've  seen  them  myself,"  his  passion  heightening  with 
the  words,  "  I've  even  seen  Lazarus  raised  from  the 
dead,  right  here  in  Poplar.  I've  seen  the  grave- 
clothes  around  his  hands  and  feet,  and  the  napkin 
tied  about  his  face,  ai.J  the  signs  of  death  upon  him 
— and  I've  seen  him  come  forth  and  live.  And  I'm 
sure  the  Master  had  as  much  power  then  as  He  has 
now.  Now  I  want  you  all  to  come  to  Him — all  to 
come  to  Jesus — ^just  as  you  are  !  Come  to  the  cross 
— don't  mmd  its  example — we'v'e  lots  of  example; 
more  than  we  ever  made  use  of.  But  we  want  a 
Saviour.  So  come,  just  as  you  are ;  come  clinging 
to  the  cross.  That's  what  we  use  it  for — not  for 
looking  at,  but  for  clinging  to — that's  been  our  way 
here  for  all  these  years,  and  that'll  be  our  way  to  the 
end. 

"  Don't  waste  your  time  looking  in — looking  for 
the  divine,  or  anything  else.  We're  sick  of  all  that's 
in  ourselves,  aren't  we?  Let  us  look  up,  and  out, 
and  on  to  Christ — that'll  refresh  our  poor  weary 
souls.     And  now,  my  brother,"  he  said,  turning  to 


•THE  GENERAL  And   The   IVAR  195 

the  previous  speaker,  "  there'-^  one  thins^  I  must  ask 
my  comrades  to  forget."  He  turned  to  his  audience, 
their  eyes  raptly  fixed  upon  the  speaker.  "  Don't 
bother  yourselves  about  the  broken  pinion.  If  the 
One  that  made  tiie  world  can't  make  a  wing  as  good 
as  new,  I'll  not  serve  Him  any  longer.  He  fixed 
Peter's  wing  all  right— and  Paul's  too— he  soared 
pretty  high  again,  if  I  know  anything  about  dis- 
tance; and  He  fixed  the  dying  thief's  enough  to 
fly  to  Paradise  with  it — and  He  mended  Augustine's 
—and  John  Bunyan's  didn't  flutter  much.  And  I've 
had  some  repairing  done  myself,  bless  His  holy 
name,"  he  cried  in  fervent  gladness ;  "  Thou  hast 
mended  mine,  oh  Christ,  till  it's  better  far  Jian  ever," 
he  exclaimed  in  a  sort  of  rhapsody;  "and  every 
pour  wounded  one  here  to-night  may  prove  Thy 
healing  power.  Oh,  come,  come  to  Jesus  now  and 
He  will  make  you  whole," 

The  General  seemed  all  unconscious  of  the  man 
whose  remarks  had  provoked  his  own,  leaning  over 
with  out>tretched  hands  toward  the  listeners,  who 
leaned  forward  with  almost  equal  eagerness  toward 
himself.  His  eyes  were  veiled  with  the  vision  of  the 
unseen  things  of  God,  yet  shining  with  a  great  com- 
passion, as  he  looked  out  upon  the  melted  company. 

"  We'll  have  a  hymn,"  he  said  presently,  "  :.nd 
after  that,  one  of  our  new  recruits  will  sing  to  us." 

"  Whiter  than  snow  "  was  the  one  he  chose  ;  and 
the  sullied  lips  sang  it  with  pathetic  fervour,  the 
chorus  chanted  again  and  again. 

After  they  had  finished,  Hattic  timidly  advanced  to 


'IF; 


!i^B!«!B 


196 


THE    UNDERTOIV 


the  organ  and  soon  began  her  song.     A  httle  ner- 
vous, somcuhat  faltering  at  first,  came  the  ricli  lull 
notes ;  but  she  soon  seemed  to  forget  her  audience 
her  friend  that  the  midnight  had  brought  her,  even 
the  General  himself. 

The  uncuhured  poor  may  disport  themselves  the 
most  m  those  religious  songs  with  which  their  senses 
are  led  captive  by  chiming  chorus  and  refrain  of 
witching  melody;  but  they  yield  their  deepest 
homage  to  the  sovereign  power  of  the  mighty  hymns 
that  are  destined  to  outlive  the  ages.  The  breath  of 
the  uplands  is  alike  precious  to  peasant  and  to  kin- 

Wherefore  when  Hattie  began  her  dying  mothers 
hymn : — 

"  When  I  survey  the  wondrous  cross 
On  which  the  Prince  of  Glory  died," 

the  faces  before  her  lighted  up  with  a  solemn  joy  that 
neither  of  the  preceding  songs  had  been  able  to 
evoke.  Their  souls,  sodden  as  they  were,  responded 
to  Its  .tately  numbers,  answering  as  to  their  native 
tongue.  Looking  up,  Hattie  caught  the  inspiration 
of  their  breathless  interest ;  and  her  soul  poured  it- 
self into  the  words,  itself  aflame  with  their  holy  fire. 

"  See  from  His  head,  His  hands.  His  feet 
Sorrow  and  love  flow  mingled  down," 

She  sang,  her  voice  trembling  with  the  passion-note. 
Her  face,  too,  is  glowing,  lit  up  with  secret  ardour  to- 
ward the  .Man  of  Sorrows,  tender  with  fellow  feeling 
for  the  wanderers  before  her,  suffused  with  grateful 


"•ixj^yt^.rxsa 


■THE  GENERAL    And    The   WAR 


197 


joy  for  the  redemption   she  knows  is  her  own  for- 
ever. 

As  Stephen  j^^azcs,  he  thinks  he  has  never  seen  a 
face  so  beatific.  All  the  surprise  of  it  breaks  upon 
him  with  overpowering;  effect ;  he  tries  in  vain  to  re- 
call different  scenes  with  which  that  face  had  mingled, 
and  to  review  hi,-,  lia,-,ty  verdict.  It  eludes  him.  He 
sees  nothing  but  the  golden  tresses  and  the  tear- 
dewed  eyes  ;  hears  nothing  but  the  wondrous  voice, 
the  great  word-  borne  ly  it  like  golden  treasure  on 
some  shining  stream  ;  feels  nothing  but  the  rapturous 
thought  that  she  is  puie  and  fragrant,  marked  for 
suffering  lor.eliness  it  may  be,  but  all  the  worthier 
thereb)-  to  voice  the  De  Profundis  of  the  ages,  lie 
feels  vaguel)-  that  she  has  learned,  in  life's  hard 
school,  the  very  truth  she  sings  ,  that  she  has  drunk 
at  the  fountain-head  of  sorrow  ;  that  she  has  caught, 
as  he  never  has,  the  Secret  of  the  Cross. 

A  new  sensation  fills  his  heart  as  it  goes  out,  as 
much  in  reverence  as  in  love,  to  the  girl  before  him. 
He  thrills  anew  as  the  purity  of  it  all,  the  girlish 
purity,  breaks  afre.-,h  upon  him.  And  in  that  hour, 
by  his  soul's  great  motion,  he  seeks  to  purify  his 
heart  forever.  The  chamber  wherein  that  image 
dwells,  must  be  chaste  and  pure.  Voy  he  knows— 
he  knows.     Life's  hour  has  struck  at  last  I 

Gazing  still,  his  eyes  meet  hers  just  as  the  h\-mn  is 
almost  finished.  The)'  seem  to  clasp  the  girl's,  his 
spirit  leaping  toward  her.  And  his  heart  throbs  as 
he  sees  how  Hattie's  eyes  drop  before  his  look.  Her 
gaze  is  averted,  but  her  voice  Hows  on : 


\a 


•  •uw'^.r»v''»3Brairsr^>.^  -■:."*,'?- 


^amk 


198  THE    UNDERTOW 

"  Demands  my  soul  my  life  my  all," 

and  the  words  smite  him  with  the  sense  of  consccra 
tion  oil  the  part  of  her  who  sings  them. 

A  great  gulf  seems  to  bid  him  back  ;  for  he  fceli 
that  tlie  hfe  before  him  has  a  motive,  and  a  surrender 
that  his  own  has  never  known.  Why,  he  knows  no 
—but  the  spiritual  has  its  own  language  to  express 
Its  hfe.  And  its  rich  tones  were  in  the  voice  whose 
thrall  was  on  ever>-  listener  s  heart. 


im 


1 


fi  '.li: 


XVI 


The    DUEL    ni    HYDE   PARK 


A 


ND  had  you  really  a  message  to  a  Duke  ?  " 
"  Ves,  from  my  father— to  thank  hmi  lor 
his  gut,  that  I  told  you  about,"  Stephen 
answered,  smding  at  the  eager  face. 

"And  you   can't  see  him   after  all.     Aren't  you 

gomg  to  —  ?     U-here  is  .t  you  said  he  lives  ?     Oh 

yes,  at  Kelso.     Aren't  you  going  there  at  all  >  "         ' 

"  ^o.  he's   in  Italy,  as  I  said,  so  of  course  I  can't 

see  h,m.     I'm  not  breaking  .,y  heart  about  .t   at 

Hattie's  face,  stamped  uith  the  reverence  for  dukes 
and  hose  of  kindred  station  that  had  come  doun  to 
her   h.  ough  generations,  st.U  bore  a  puzzled  look. 

I  dont  believe  I  ever  kne.v  any  one  before  who 
knew  a  great  man  hke  that."  she  averred  after  along 

I^ut  where  I  m  ,  .,ng  to  live,  there  are  lots  of  men 

any  titles.     They're  untitled  dukes,  a  lot  of  them." 

thn  rv!  ^?  "'^''"  ^^  ^^^^  Sreat  Hamilton  church- 
the  Church  of  the  Covenant.  And  you  say  you've 
promised  to  be  their  minister?"  ^  y      ^^ 

'■  Ves,  I've  written  them  so." 

199 


I 


r^ 


i'i' 


20O 


THE    UNDERTOiV 


m 


"  And  wliat  will  thai  other  place  do,  that  country 
congrcj;ation  ?  " 

"  Oh,  Morven,  you  mean.  I  guess  they'll  -oon  for- 
get about  mc.  Which  would  you  have  taken  ?  "  he 
added,  turning  and  looking  into  her  lace. 

"  I'd  have  gone  to  Morven,"  .lie  answered  fer- 
vently. 

"  VVIiy  ?  " 

"  Oh,  well,  I  suppose  because  I'n^  not  used  to  rich 
people— and  I  wouldn't  be  happy.  And  then  I 
could  do  mo-e  good  in  a  nice  countr)-  place.  Do  you 
know  what  I  can't  help  thinking?  " 

"  No,  what  is  it— tell  me  ?  " 

"  It  seems  so  strange  for  me  to  be  here  with  you,  as 
your— your— friend,  with  all  thatyouarc— andthepeo- 
ple  you  know— and  all  that  you're  going  to  be.  And 
I  nothing  but  a  simple  little  country  girl— oh,  listen," 
she  ciied  suddenly,  her  attention  diverted  by  the 
words,  "  isn't  that  fearful  ?  Do  you  hear  what  that 
man's  saying  ?     Let  us  go  away." 

It  was  Sunday  afternoon  in  Hyde  Park,  at  which 
cinie  and  place  earth  and  heaven  meet — and  all  that 
lies  between.  Stretched  in  verdant  beauty,  the  great 
park  rang  with  conflicting  voices,  like  some  tower  of 
Babel,  prostrate  and  shattered  upon  the  sward,  but 
echoing  and  gesticulating  still.  The  world's  parlia- 
ment of  religions  was  revelling  in  its  weekly  session, 
every  chime  of  the  exultant  and  every  groan  of  the 
disordered  finding  here  unmuffled  voice. 

The  words  that  had  evoked   Hattie's  shuddering 
protest  were  those  of  a  high-browed  orator,  holding 


■Th. 


DUEL    in    HYDE   PARK 


201 


in  I1..S  Land  a  ]'..blc.  which.  w,th  all  it.  kindred   I,c 
was  committing  to  a  fitting  grave. 

llattic  ,,„d  Stephen  lingered,  li.tcning  as  the  des- 
troyer went  on  his  vva>-.  exceeding  hut  aga.n.t  the 
vo  un,e  whose  lileless  torn,  he  held  ap  again  and  agam 
before  his  li.-,teners'  e>ex 

Steplien's  fice  burned  a.,  he  marked  tlic  varied 
modes  of  attack;  .ome  covert,  some  ingenious,  some 
bc^'uihng,  some  coar>e  and  ravage,  but  touciied 
^vith  the  man's  ev.dent  abiht)-,  marked  by  consid- 
erable grace  of  speech,  all  animated  b>-  a  turbid  as- 
surance, simulated  or  sincere,  that  the  JJ.ble.s  rei-n 
was  at  an  end.  *" 

Even  Homer  nods;  happily  for  what  was  yet  to 
fol  ow  the  debater,  amid  much  that  was  worthier,  in- 
dulged a  swift  and  sneering  reference  to  Jonah  and 
ills  adventures  submarine. 

Deeper  burned  the  flame  on  Stephen's  cheek  and 
brow  as   he  noted  the  apparent  grip  the  man  pos- 
sessed upon  at  least  a  section  of  the  vast  crowd  that 
was  now  massed  about  the  portable  platform   from 
vvh<ch   he   launched   his    finished   sentences;    ind." 
nation  gathered  m  his  heart  as  he  noticed  here  an^d 
there  among  the  throng  an   unsophisticated  youtli. 
.sv.,ole  demeanour  bespeaking  the  initial  shock  of 
1  or  or  and  surprise ;  which,  and  here  was  the  pity  of 
>t.  s  ou-,y  vanishing  before  the  derisive  or  destructive 
ot  the  mins  appeal,  turned  at  last  into  an  attitude  of 
ud.aal  wonder  sometimes  to  one  of  smiling  and  en- 
lightened  approbation. 
"And  now,"  he  said  as  he  closed  his  fiery  address, 


I  < 


I'l 


aoa 


7 HE    UNDERTOVy 


— a  «       '    5 ' 


s 


"  I  pause  to  f;ivc  any  who  may  so  desire  an  oppor- 
tunity to  refute  my  arjjuments.  Docs  any  gentleman 
wish  to  take  the  platform  ?  " 

There  was  a  nervous  pause,  durinjj  which  Stephen 
turned  and  lo'  l^ed  into  Ilattie's  face.  Two  burning 
coals  sat  on  wer  cheeks  ;  poor  child,  she  had  never 
heard  the  like  of  this  before — and  the  only  IJible  she 
had  known  was  lier  mother's,  holy  with  its  stain  of 
tears. 

As  Stephen  looked  into  the  flashing  eyes,  their 
light  seemed  turned  to  language,  and  his  heart  leaprd 
to  do  their  bidding.  Neither  spoke  a  word — but  the 
crowd  v^as  swa>ing  as  if  to  break  and  scatter. 
Whereat  he  held  up  his  hand  toward  the  platform,  to 
attract  attention,  pressing  eagerly  on  through  the 
crowd. 

"  Ah,  here's  somebody  to  the  rescue.  Ladies  and 
gentlemen,"  cried  the  lecturer,  flinging  his  voice  to 
the  outskirts  of  the  crowd,  "  here's  a  gentleman  who 
will  try  to  answer  me." 

The  multitud.-  flowed  together  again,  and  Stephen 
could  feel  his  heart  beat  as  he  stood  by  the  narrow 
steps  which  the  now  silent  orator  descended  to  make 
room  for  the  newcomer.  Their  eyes  met  as  Stephen's 
foot  was  on  the  bottom  step. 

"  Might  I  enquire  your  name,  sir  ?  "  Stephen  asked, 
pausing  a  moment. 

"  Certainly.  My  name  is  Harstone,  Dr.  Harstone 
—  I'm  a  Doctor  of  Science." 

"  Thank  you :  my  name's  Wishart,"  and  Stephen 
ascended  another  step. 


The    DUEL    in    HYDE   PARK      20) 

The  Doctor  of  Science,  mcctinq  his  rcspondciit's 
eye,  may  liavc  detected  within  it  symptom^  not  par- 
ticularly rea.,,urnH'  In  any  case,  lie  leaned  forward 
and  touched  Steplien  on  the  arm. 

"  Kive  minutes  i;,  all  I  cai  allow  you,  sir;  I've 
promised  my  platform  to  a  collea^^ue  up  nearer  the 
marble  arch— very  sorry,  but  five  minut«.-s  is  all  I  can 
afford. " 

St  -phen  looked  at  the  man,  answered  nothing,  and 
stepped  on  to  the  platform.  A  sudden  inspiration 
seized  him;  looking'  for  a  moment  at  the  swaying 
crowd,  he  be^^an  : 

"  I  iiavc  not  ascended  this  platform  for  the  purpose 
of  ansucrin;:,'  Dr.  Harstoi;e--for  such  he  kindly  in- 
forms me  is  his  namc-or  of  refuting  his  arguments. 
On  the  contrary,  I  iuive  taken  my  place  he-e  that  I 
may  ask  this  great  audience  to  join  in  what  is  proba- 
bly a  most  unusur'  proceeding  for  a  gathering  such 
as  this.  I  shall  ask  you  to  unite  with  me  in  an  ex- 
pression of  appreciation  and  gratitude  toward  the 
gifted  gentleman  for  the  enlightenment  he  has  just 
afforded  us."  At  which  startling  announcement,  the 
crowd  suddenly  grew  still,  then  stirred  in  disappointed 
movement,  then  became  quiet  again,  eager  for  further 
light. 

That  moment,  a  dapper  youth  tripped  noiselessly 
up  the  steps.     Stephen  turned. 

"  The  Doctor  says  you  may  take  your  own  time," 
he  intimated  in  a  low  tone,  nodding  genially  the 
while. 

"  Thank  you,"  said  Stephen,  his  face  a  little  pale 


■-.-s*;    *   -▼=<*  ^^~jsr 


204 


THE    UNDEKTOIV 


as  he  turned  afjiin  to  the  waiting;  thronj^.  He  was 
silent  a  moment  or  two,  loukmg,  btiU  looking  into 
those  moix-  tli.in  ocean  depths. 

And.  a>  lie  looked,  a  breeze  from  afar  came  and 
stirred  his  soul  as  the  ni-ht-wind  awake.>  the  i)!acid 
surface  of  the  sea.  For  the  soul  of  the  true  orator 
moved  within  him,  ^ropinj;  for  its  armour  and  its 
sword. 

'I  multitude  seemed  to  turn  their  faces  toward 
him  iw  entreaty,  like  men  and  women  whose  treasure 
was  involved  in  the  trial  under  way.  unconscious  ol  it 
though  they  themselves  might  be.  laager  expecta- 
tion, clouded  now  with  dark  surprise  as  hi.,  first 
words  floated  down,  still  shone  from  the  eyes  that 
had  hoped  to  find  a  champion  for  their  faith  in  the 
man  whose  power  of  face  and  form  had  provoked 
their  eager  interest  as  he  rose. 

And  there  swims  before  him  a  picture  that  fills 
his  soul  with  fire ;  far  away,  beyond  the  separating 
billows,  he  -^es  the  stooped  and  tired  form  of  one 
but  for  who.e  life  he  had  not  been.  The  thin  gray 
locks  are  straggled  about  the  furrowed  neck  ;  the  toil- 
worn  hands  are  holding  in  their  reverent  grasp  a  -.ol- 
ume  rich  in  sacred  memories ;  tne  noble  eyes  arc 
glowing  with  the  light  of  love  as  the  trembling  lips 
move  on  their  '^ager  way.  The  light  burns  dim 
in  the  old  farmhou---  kitcli  n  and  the  clock  ticks 
solemnly  as  the  moments  fly.  Bui  to  Stephen's  rev- 
erent vision  the  room  is  filled  with  light ;  and  the 
aged  worshipper  is  none  other  than  one  of  the  ::ings 
and  priests  of  God. 


mwr^^T^^m^^^^m^ 


i^jT^smimm, 


Tlu    DUEL    iH    HYDE   P  ^{  K  K       20^ 

The  VI.... n  .wiftly  disappear,  as  ho  b.:li,,.kl,  ancu- 
the  ca-c.  thruM;^s  waituij,'  tor  the  vvurds  hi^  reven.- 
has  detcrreil. 

"  Vcs.  felluu-iisteners,"  he  resumed.  "  shall  ..e  iiot 
render  our  meed  of  prai>e  unto  t.w  man  wli,,  iia.-,  i,o 
helped  and  in.si)ired  us?" 

1  lie  laces  (ii  hi-  auditors  darkened  before  him. 

"  When  I  tlr-t  heard  his  words  this  alterno.in,  I 
nas  a  firm  believer  in  the  Hible  he  h:^  so  relentlessly 
cxpo.,e  I;  but  who  could  (ail  to  be  converted  to  that 
orators  position,  now  that  he  has  heard  the  stnkin^r 
and  ori-inal  reference  to  Jonah  and  the  whale  which 
bas  just  broken  with  such  startling  power  from  his 
hps  ?  " 

The  daun  of  new  hope  berjan  to  play  upon  the 
faces  of  the  crowd;  and  the  high-browed  lectuier 
looked  uneasily  at  the  dapper  youth  who  had  borne 
his  message  of  extended  time. 

"  Besides."  Stephen  went  on.  the  inward  fire  kind- 
ling, '<  he  has  not  told  us  half  that  may  be  said  m 
praise  of  the  noble  cause  to  which  he  lends  his  h\a\x 
abilities.     His  diffidence  has  sealed  his  lips.     Why 
has  he  not  informed  us  as  to  the  hospitals  that  have 
been  built,  the  asylumc  that  have  been  provided,  by 
those  who  flout  the  authority  of  the  Bible  ?     Why 
has  he  not  enumerated  the  lands  in  which  philan- 
thropy and  generosity  spring  like  a  fountain,  fed  bv 
some  other  spring  than  that  eternal  Pieart  of  which 
the  Bible  tells  ?     Why  has  he,  in  the  excess   of  his 
modesty,  concealed   from  us  the  fact  that  the  men 
who   have  blessed  mankind  have  been   tho.e   who 


!  i 


206 


THE    UNDERTOH^ 


owed  nothing  lo  the  hght  and  power  of  that  book 
which  in  our  ignorance  we  have  called  the  Word  of 
God  ?  Why  has  lie  not  called  to  his  aid  the  mighty 
names  of  Scott  or  Gladstone,  of  Washingtt)n  or  Lin- 
coln, of  Kelvin  or  Carlyle  ?  Or  why  has  he  hidden 
from  us  the  kindred  truth  that  those  nations  that  de- 
spise the  Bible  have  won  immortal  vigour,  while  those 
that  own  its  fabled  sway,  like  England  and  America, 
have  gone  down  the  gulf  of  time  ? 

"  Nor  has  he  been  boastful  enough  to  declare  that 
the  mightiest  conceptions  of  art,  or  poetry,  or  music, 
have  been  vouchsafed  to  minds  that  drank  from' 
purer  springs  than  the  stagnant  pools  of  the  mythol- 
ogy he  has  dehned.  He  has  refrained  from  the 
crushing  evidence  of  Handel's  Messiah,  and  Da 
Vinci's  Last  Supper,  and  Milton's  Paradise  Lost,  on 
all  of  which  he  might  have  laid  his  hai.d. 

"  Shall  we  not,  ladies  and  gentlemen,  acclaim  this 
heroic  spirit  who  has  so  enriched  our  conception  of 
our  destiny,  who  has  in  kindness  quenched  the  will- 
o'-the-wisp  our  fathers  followed  even  to  the  grave, 
who  has  plucked  from  our  hands  the  last  signal  of 
distress  our  fevered  hands  could  wave,  and  filled  with 
honest  brine  the  very  vessels  our  deluded  hearts  had 
hoped  were  the  receptacles  of  living  water  to  quench 
hfe's  cruel  thirst  ?  " 

He  stopped  suddenly,  looking  about  him  while  a 
strange  tremor  shook  his  frame.  The  owner  of  the 
platform  moved  as  if  to  asrcnd  the  stairs,  but 
Stephen  stopped  him.  "  I  am  not  through,"  he  said, 
sternly. 


m^S!^!^^ 


The    DUEL    in    HYDE    PARK      207 

Then  he  turned  again  to  his  hstencrs,  and  a  won- 
derful softness  was  in  his  voice  as  he  resumed. 

"  Why  sliould  I  further  pursue,"  he  began  in  the 
quietest  of  tones,  "  the  unusual  style  of  debate  I  have 
thus  far  adopted  ?  I  will  not  press  it  further.  What 
have  I  to  do  with  motions,  or  mock  votes  of  thanks  ? 
But  I  will  tell  you  why  I  stand  before  you  as  I  do 
to-day  ;  "  and,  as  he  spoke,  he  drew  his  watch  from 
his  pocket  and  opened  it.  ••  Even  as  I  speak  these 
words,  there  sits,  far  across  tlie  sea,  an  aged  man 
whose  life  I  have  seen  ripen  in  all  truth  and  beauty. 
And  the  failing  eyes,  the  e>-cs  that  are  often  turned 
toward  the  son  who  stands  before  you  now,  the  eyes 
that  may  soon  be  closed  in  death,  are  fixed  this  hour 
upon  that  blessed  Book  whose  unseen  hands  have 
borne  him  through  this  vale  of  tears. 

"  And  I  will  tell  you  more,"  he  continued,  his 
voice  broken  and  trembling  now,  "  you  are  listening 
to  a  weak  and  sinful  man.  Mow,  or  why,  I  need  not 
say.  But  if  there  be  in  him  any  lingering  hope  of 
final  victory,  any  germ  of  holier  tilings,  he  owes  it  to 
a  mother  who  is  now  with  God.  Yes."  he  cried, 
standing  at  full  height  again,  his  voice  holding  Uke  a 
bell  of  gold,  "  to  a  humble  Christian  woman  who 
reverenced  the  word  of  God.  and  loved  it  with  a  con- 
suming love.  And  it  was  the  pillow  for  her  dying 
head.  And  she  drank  from  that  golden  fountain  as 
she  passed  through  the  valley  with  her  Lord.  And 
her  dear  name  is  written  in  my  Bible— and  I  love  its 
every  page." 

He  finished  thus,  athriU  with  the  great  emotion. 


P, 


208 


■THE    UNDERTOIV 


.:  :  1 


«-r.„.  ;-/-r^e;;;:^7Z,r,;: 
l.IK  parted  a„d  pan.ino,  |,er  bosom  hcavin,;  "won 

In  rr,    ■;"■  ?°"'"«'  ='"'°''  "-'■ipft.l-a      a'" 

ilt'ds'  ood  beet::;'';; ■'""■/r '°  '^^^-  "-"s^ 

Thrilled  and  gladdened,  the  grea  crowd  burst  into 

a  vc,^-  frenzy  of  cheering  and  applause  as  Stephen 

urned  to  descend  the  steps.     When  this  suWded 

the  selPsafsfied  youth  afore  referred  to  leaped  to  the 

Piatorn,,  rumbling  in  his  breast  pocK-et  fo7ado    ! 

tTtarrv^irr  *'r"'"'^  '°  ««  moving  multitude 
to  tarry  t,ll  he  m.ght  produce  evidence  that  an  infidel 
had  recently  given  ten  pounds  to  an  infirmary.  ,„ 
a  augh  broke  from  the  croud  as  he  announced  hs 
ouUme  of  reply  fol,„.  j  .„„,„3,  immediately  by  a 
nch  bantonc  voice  that  broke  forth  with 

"  Sing  them  over  again  to  me. 
WonULiful  Hofii,  of  life," 

to  the  music  of  which  the  throng  slou-]y  scattered 
joining  ,n  the  chorus  as  they  went?  scattered, 


■The    DUEL    1,1    HYDE    PARK       209 

Rejouiin-  ilattic,  Stephen  said:  "  Let  us  ^o  back 
by  the  t.ibe  ;  there's  a  .■,tation  just  outside  tiie  -ate." 
Toward  uiiicli  tiiey  walked  in  silence,  Hattie's^  eyes 
now  and  then  stealin-  to  her  companion's  lace. 

Trcmbhn-ly  ,he  took  his  arm  a.  they  pas.cd 
throu-h  the  crou  ded  arch,  still  clinging  to  it  as  they 
gained  the  strea  without.  Suddenly  a  degraded 
hgure  placed  herelf  betore  them,  the  face  leenng 
up  at  llattie. 

"lies  quite  a  horator,  isn't  he  now.>"  the  un- 
kn-  woman  flung  at  Uattie  with  a  mocking  laugh, 
"  but  the  public  don't  know  'im  as  well  as  me  an'  you.' 
Oh,  you  needn't  be  a  turnin'  up  of  yer  no..c..  :  I  seen 
the  both  of  you  the  night  he  picked  you  up,  an'  then 
pushed  you  off  on  the  'ome.  I  went  into  the  1  larmy 
'omc  just  behind  you.  Won't  you  take  me  out  too, 
mister,  some  nother  afternoon?  "  and  the  poor  creature 
laughed  at  her  jibing  words. 

Without  a  word.  Stephen  hurried  the  quivering 
Hattie  on,  blanched  and  white  as  was  her  tace. 
What  the  girl  was  pondering  need  scarce  be  told, 
nor  what  dread  inference  she  was  drawing,  enlight- 
ened as  she  was  by  the  coarse  and  cruel  words,  con- 
cerning the  future  portent  of  her  relationship  to  the 
man  who  now  seemed  so  far  beyond  her. 

But  the  silence  of  their  remaining  way  to  the 
burieu  station  was  broken  by  lier  only  "once,  and  then 
to  say  : 

"  Oh,  Mr.  W^ishart,  let  me  go  alone— this  should 
not  be  ;  oh,  let  me  go."  Which  he  eluded  in  the 
tenderest  oi  tones,  drawing  closer  to  tiie  shrinking 


^'O  THE    UNDERTOW 

f-m  as  they  passed  down  through  the  sen.i-dark- 
But  as  they  entered  the  corridor  of  their  car  si,. 


■^.■^>J^! 


XVII 
/IN    EDINBURGH  l^O/CE 

AS  Stephen  Wishart  sat  beside  his  half-packed 
trunk,  the  day  was  as  bright  and  beautiful 
as  his  mood  was  dark  and  sorrowful  For 
he  was  about  to  set  forth  for  the  Scottish  Capital,  and 
1  don.  his  treasure  hidden  somewhere  in  itsmi-hty 
folds,  was  to  be  left  behind.  And  abandoned  too 
must  be  the  search  for  one  whose  motive  in  eluding 
him  lended  only  -reater  charm  to  the  character  whose 
punty  and  goodness  had  so  strangely  touched 
JUS  lite. 

A  new  source  of  disquiet  had  arisen,  in  the  shape 
of  a  letter  from  his  brother  Reuben,  which  at  that 
very  moment  engaged  his  serious  thought.     It  be-an 
with  a  reference  to  his  call  to  Hamilton,  and  abounded 
m  simple  felicitations  upon  the  distinction  that  had 
come  to  him,  full  particulars  of  which,  he  ..aid,  would 
have  already  readied  him  in  the  letter  his  father  had 
dictated.     A  parsing   reference  to  Morven,  and  his 
father  spreterence  for  the  fieidof  labour  there,  wa.  fol- 
lowed by  the   annals   of  the    neighbourhood,    chief 
amongst  which  was  the  story  of  a  rare  piece  of  good 
fortune  tuat  had  befallen  Hiram  Barker. 

The  letter  went  on  to  tell  how  H.ram  had  been  left 
a  handsome  competence  by  a  far-off  relative  in  Fn-- 
Jand.  It  being  a  condition  of  entail  tliat  tiie  bencf-ciaPy 

I 


If 


212 


THE    UNDERTOU^ 


sliould   adopt  the    Roman    Catholic   faith.     Which 
Kcubcn  declared,  ll.ram  had  promptly  done,  beinj^' 
more  ,n  need  of  money  than  religion,  as  he  said  him 
self.     Indeed,  the  correspondent  remarked,  Barkers 
ncu-found  laith  ,s  more  ,„  the  nature  of  an  acqu.si- 
t.on  than  a  change;  as  there  was  very  little  to  dis- 
place.    ■.  So  Hiram  has  laid  aside  the  tools  of  toil  " 
Reuben  added.  «  and  is  going  to  live  a  gentlenun's 
hfc  m  the  c.ty_says  he  thinks  he'll  go  to  Hamilton, 
so  he  can  be  near  one  of  the  friends  of  his  youth  be- 
ing quite  set  up  with  the  exalted  place  his  old  chum 
IS  to  occupy  on   his  return.     And  nou-."  the  letter 
concluded  ..  dear  Steve,  I've  kept  the  best  news  to 
tne  last.     I  m  the  happiest  man  in  the  Province.    You 
know  why.  I  guess-but  I'll  tell  you.     I'm  going  to 
be  marned  soon-at  least  before  very  long-although 
1   cant  get   Be    ,e  just   to  say  when.     She  doesn't 
want  to  leave  the  old  folks  just  yet,  she  saj-s,  both  of 
whom  are  poorly.     There.  I've  let  the  cat  out  of  the 
bag-but  I  reckon  you  knew.     I'm  not  much  at  go- 
ing on  over  things.  Steve-but  I'm  so  happy.     She's 
the  dearest,  truest  girl  in  the  world,  as  you  know- 
and  Steve  we  want  you  to  marry  us.     So  hurry  up 
and  come  home  to 

"  Your  afifectionate  brother, 

poloLt't"     ^^-^--^- -Ik  down  to  the 

At  the  news  of  Reuben's  approaching  martiage- 
and  of  Bess.e's  hesitation-a  mysterious  riot  beg.,n  in 


/IN   EDINBURGH    yOlCH         -13 

Stephen's  heart.  He  wondered  why.  A  dark  lace, 
only  for  an  instant,  stamped  witli  pallid  memory, 
looked  in  at  the  wmdow  of  his  soul.  Instantl)  tlis- 
missed  it  wa>,  as  the  tide  of  his  own  cha -te  and  rev- 
erent love  surged  within  him ;  and  a  deep  sense  of 
gratitude,  aImo>t  of  joy,  accompanied  the  thouf,'ht 
of  his  brother's  happiness,  which  brother's  name  he 
breathed  in  bles^in^;. 

Ikit  this  news  about  Hiram  !  Xot  that  the  tidinjjs 
of  the  lucky  windfall  surprised  him  very  much. 
Hiram  had  (jflen  tlirown  out  hints  rcfjardincj  possible 
legacies  from  Kngland — reservedly  enough,  it  was 
true ;  for  the  man  was  no  boaster,  l^at  some  prop- 
erty or  another  that  was  entailed  had  been  the  basis 
of  his  expectations.  "  The  devil  himself  can't  cheat 
me  out  of  it,"  he  had  told  Stephen  more  than  once, 
"  unless  he  calls  me  home  before  the  other  fellow." 
Wherefore  it  was  evident  to  Stephen  that  "  the  other 
fellow  "  had  outrun  the  tarrying  Hiram,  leaving  the 
property  behind  him,  in  that  spirit  of  generosity 
which  so  often  comes  with  death. 


"  Yes,  I  got  my  traiu...g  here  in  Edinburgh— and 
I  finished  in  Germany.  And  I  bless  the  memor\-  of 
my  old  professors- -it's  all  useful  in  its  way.  But 
would  you  like  me  to  tell  you,  Mr.  Wishart.  of  one 
little  incident  that  went  far  to  make  mc  a  pastor?  " 

The  speaker  was  one  of  Edinburgh's  most  famous 
preachers. 

"  Yes,"  Stephen  answered  eagerly, "  indeed  I  would. 


i 


214 


THE    UNDERTOIV 


M''^- 


My  old  professor.  Dr.  Kingley,  told  mc  the  pastoral 
.n.t.nct  was  your  ruling  pass,on_one  reason,  he  sa.d 
he  wanted  me  to  bnng  his  letter  to  you.     I  would' 
hke  to  hear  the  incident  you  refer  to." 

"  Wei:,  sir  it  was  a  bootblack;  and  he  did  more 
than  any  other  or  as  much  as  any  other-to"I 
me  a  pastor  s  heart.  It  happened  on  Lothian  K^oad 
-  ust  when  my  mm.stry  was  begun.  He  was  giving 
me  a   shme     and   I  was  in  a  hurry-was  cross  and 

st;rc?:r"  ^ "'"""'  ''^^'^^'y  ^^°-  -^  -^- 

cencf  "iT'V"^  '•''  P'"'^'''^^^  '""'^'^^  ''  the  renunis- 
to  noli  h  t  ''^  '  corn-and  the  urchin  seemed  bound 
to  pohsh  that  corn.  So  I  lost  my  temper  suddenly 
and  spoke  to  him  about  as  sharply  as  I  Lr  spoke  to 

pened  to  7'^";''"'"^  '"  "^'^  '  P^P^  ^^  ^  '-P' 
fellow  was  brushmg  away  for  dear  life_and  I  saw 
two  or  three  b,g  tears  drop  nght  on  his  blacking-box. 
I  had  q  t  a  time  gettu^g  the  little  chap  to  tell  me 
v^ha  u      the  matter-but  he  told  me  his  story  at  last. 

huJr  T  ^^^^^■^'■■^S'^--  P-r  quarter  of  Edin- 
burgh and  h.s  mother  had  been  buried  the  very 
day    beiore:-.  Tarn    an'    mc    wheelt     her   oot   to 

said  7'  ,  ^""^  '''""''  '"  ^  '^^"'^  ■  the  little  fellow 
saKl     for  a   change  o'  air-but  she  got  nae  better. 

an  t"  \  '"  ^'"^  *'"  *^^  Infi^ary-an-  me 

an  Tam  uas  w,  her  when  she  dee't.     An'  Tam  an' 

S:  b^Xr."  ''' '''  ^""^^^'  °°-^'^-  ^-^'^  -y 

"  That  was  the  simple  story-but  it  almost  made  a 


1 


y4N   EDINBURGH   l^OICE         21s 

minister  of  me.  A  true  minister  will  always  feci  that 
he  IS  walkin-  over  Waterloo  after  the  battle,  tryni^ao 
help  the  tallcn.  It's  a  choice  between  the  harn.ued 
heart  and  no  heart  at  all.  iVay  for  the  capacity  to  suf- 
fer, Mr.  \Vi>iuirt,  if  you  want  to  enjoy  your  ministry." 
'•  I  see  >our  meaning."  Stephen  answered  enthusi- 
astically; "  and  I  think  it's  beautiful.  There's  noth- 
ing so  really  enjoyable  as  tlie  cross— that's  the  idea, 
isn  tit?"  he  added  buoyantly. 

The  older  man  cast  at  him  a  glance  of  curious 
keenness. 

"  Ves,  that's  tiic  idea— the  idea,"  he  replied  half 
aloud,  his  enipiiasis  full  of  meaning  that  was  lost  on 
Stephen.  "  1  guess  we'll  have  to  go—our  meetir^ 
begins  at  eight."  "^ 

The  attendance  at  this  mid-week  service  was  not 
large  ;  but  Stephen  was  enthralled  by  the  wonderful 
words  that  fell  from  the  preacher's  lips.  His  subject 
was  Jacob-how  lie  had  cheated  his  brother  Ksa-i  • 
and  how  he  himself  had  been  cheated  in  return  by  his' 
Uncle  Laban. 

"  He  was  cheated  out  of  his  wages ;  and  cheated 
out  of  his  w,te,  and  cheated,  and  cheated,  and  cheated 
again,  ten  times  cheated,  till  cheating  came  out  of 
Jacobs  nostrils  and  stank  in  his  eyes  and  became 
hateful  as  hell  to  Jacob's  heart,"  and  the  preacher's 
glowing  eyes  seemed  fixed  on  Stephen  as  he  spoke. 

"  \Ve  say  that  Greek  meets  Greek,"  he  went  on, 
"we  say  that  diamond  cuts  diamond.  We  calculate 
the  length  of  handle  his  spoon  would  need  to  have 
who  sups  with  the  devil.     We  speak  about  the  seller 


^r 


216 


THE    UNDERTOiy 


bcinjj  sold.     As  a  man  sowcth,  so  shall  he  reap,  we 
quote.     Other   little   bu>s  had  been   takia-  pn/.e.  in 
the  devil's  Ay  school,  besides  Rebecca'>  lavountc  son. 
And  now  that  the  sta-e  is  all  read\-.  all  the  uurkl  i> 
invited  ill  to  see  the  serio-comedy  ot  the  Syrian  biter 
bit.  or  Rebecca's  poor  lo.>t  sheep  shorn  t.>  the  bone 
by  the  steely  shears  ol  Shylock  her  b.>.lln.r.     •  What 
is  this  that  thou   hast  d^nc   unto  me?      W'hereK.re 
hast  thou  so  be^niiled  me  ?  '  Jacob  renion>tiate>  in  hi> 
Mveet,  injured,   salad   innocence.      Jac^lj  had   never 
seen   or   heard   the   like   of    it.     It   shocked   terribly 
Jacob'*  sen>e  of  ri-ht ;  it  almost  shook  down  Jacob's 
faith   in  tl'.e  God   of  Ikthel.     And  so  still,"  went  on 
the   preacher,   and   Stephen   knows   now  that   those 
piercinj;  eyes  are  fixed  upon  himself,  "  we  never  see 
what  wickedness  there  is  in  lies,  and  treacher>-,  and 
cheatery,  and   injury  of  all  kinds  till  we  are  cheated 
and   lied   apjainst   and   injured   ourselves.     Then  the 
whole  blackness  and  abominableness  breaks  out  upon 
us.     As  long  as  Ksau  lives,  as  lon-j  as  that  man  or  that 
woman  lives  whom  our  son  supplanted  so  long  ago, 
he  will  build  his  house  over  a  volcano  and  will  travel 
home  to  it  with  a  trembling  heart." 

Which  very  heart  Stephen  bore  within  his  bosom 
as  he  turned  his  footsteps  homeward,  or  at  least  to- 
ward the  humble  room  on  George  Street  which  now 
served  him  as  a  home. 

For  he  somehow  felt  that  Jacob's  experience  was 
not  far  different  from  his  own.  The  weeks  he  had 
spent  in  Edinburgh  had  passed  on  leaden  feet.  Dis- 
appointment, heart-hunger,  loneliness,  had  been   his 


W.V    EDIS  BURGH    !' O  I C  E  -17 

portion.  Was  it  to  be  hi.  lot,  lie  mii.,cil,.i.,  lie  ualkcd 
sluuly  on,  to  t.i.tc  Iiiiu.-,t.lt"  ol  the  cup  lii.it  utliers  had 
been  compelled  to  drink  thiou-li  the  ionient  of  lii.s 
heart  and  the  inconstancy  ut  lu-.  soul  ? 

)  >r  his  h.j.ut  uas  lum-enn-  f- .r  the  .-i:.;ht  of  that 
dear  tace,  lor  the  sound  ol'  that  riclv  and  souiuil 
voice,  both  of  which  had  so  suddenly  laid  their  spell 
upon  his  life— a  new  spell,  unlike  to  those  of  earlier 
days  that  hail  been  so  ih(jut,'htle.ssly  avowed  and  so 
liulUly  banished.  All  his  efforts  to  find  Ilattie,  or  to 
see  her  a;,'ain  before  he  left  London  for  the  North,  iiad 
been  in  vain.  A  brief  note  forwarded  fr.jin  his  Lon- 
don lod^rin^rs  to  lAlmbur'jh.  telling'  hiin  that  they  nuist 
not  meet,  liad  been  ail  his  ea;;er  heart  was  ^Mveii. 

"  You  will  rro  your  Way  and  be  a  faithful  servant  of 
the  Master,"  she  had  said,  ••  and  111  ^'o  mine,  and  try 
to  be  a  good  soldier  of  the  cross.  lor  I've  ^jone  into 
the  war ;  and  I  shall  do  all  a  weak  girl  cai^for  Him 
wao  loved  me  and  saved  me  by  I  lis  -r.uce.  I  le  kept 
my  feet  from  the  fearful  pit  and  the  miry  clay- 
arid  lie  has  kept  my  little  cross  bright  and  burnished 
still.  And  I  shall  always  pray  for  you— and  never 
forget  you—I'll  remember  you  more  than  I  will  any- 
body else.     Good-bye." 

Thus  the  simple  note  had  ended,  and  Stephen  had 
read  it  over  and  over  again,  knowing  better  every 
time  that  at  kist  he  had  learned  to  love.  Learning 
which,  he  had  learned  to  suffer  too. 

One  last  appealing  letter  he  had  written,  but  it  had 
brought  forth  no  response.  Letters  to  the  Army 
Home  elicited  the  information  that  she  was  on  duty 


J 

-4S 


m 


ai8 


THE    UXDERTOU^ 


away   from    Loiui.m— and   silence,  deep   and   dark, 
settled  down  about  him. 

The  iKjrtentoiis  phrases  of  the  sermon  he  had 
he.ird  min^ded  aith  liis  thou^dit  as  he  walked  alunj,'. 
«'  Ihe  bitcr,  bit  !  The  seller,  sold  !  "  Wa-  ]u^  i,\ui 
punishment  to  come  to  him  thus,  he  metlitaleii? 
"  His  house  over  a  volcano  !"  Could  it  be  that  he 
too  was  reaping,'  what  he  had  sowetl  so  recklessly  ? 
lie  thou^dit  of  (iod  and  was  troubled.  After  all, 
does  He  think  of  justice,  and  retribution— in  detail? 
The  memory  of  the  L>ceum  theatre— and  the  ^'reat 
actor— and  hi,-,  awlul  message— flashed  through  iiis 
mind. 

Ihe  busy  weeks  and  months  flew  by,  filled  with 
ardent  stud)-,  nruked  by  much  of  fruitful  tliouj;ht 
and  more  of  deepening  life.  The  spirit  of  penitence 
and  pleading,  mingled  with  the  sorrow  of  hi>  lonely 
heart,  seemed  to  quicken  Stephen  Wishart's  whole 
intellectual  life,  devoted  as  it  was  in  serious  purpose 
to  his  work  in  hand.  With  the  result  that  his  old- 
time  record  of  academic  brilliancy  was  not  only  sus- 
tained, but  heightened,  winnin  the  highest  eulogies 
of  jiis  professors  with  the  highest  honours  of  the 
term. 

And  now  the  time  had  come  when  Stephen,  with 
others  ot  his  class,  was  to  be  licensed  as  a  preacher 
of  the  Gospel.  The  ceremony  was  to  be  held  in  one 
of  the  largest  churches  in  Scotia's  darling  seat, 
wherein  Stephen  and  his  fellows  presented  them- 
selves for  the  solemn  rite,  which  was  duly  performed. 


•>1, 


W.V    EDl\BURGH   l^ O / C B         .,o 

the  Rrcat  duty  l.iid  up.in  them,  the  ^rcat  tru^t  com- 
mitted to  their  huLiU.  FoUouin-  I'n,.  the  Moderator 
led  in  eanie.t  prayer.  commeiidir>^:  tllem  to  the  -re.it 
Master  wlioin  they  da.    J  to  serve. 

Trom   tlie   piatlonn  where   they  stood.   Steplieii's 
eye  roamed  caiele.^sly  over  tlie  multitude  that  tilled 
the  ciuirch.     Suddenly  lus   attention    was   arretted; 
amoii-  all  tiie  forms  ..t'  head-ear   that   crowned  the 
beiuied  heads  of  kneeling,'  women,  he  remarked  one 
that  luirled  hi,  mind  swittly  back   to  an   association 
from  whir'     ,t   wa.    never  lonrr    detached.     l-"o.   the 
bonnet  \....  of  one   who  had   enlisted  in  the  army  of 
the  I.ord-ar.d  the  flaming'  ribbon  was  up.jn  its  brow. 
His  burnin.i;  eyes  fastened  themselves  upon  it.  nor 
were  withdrawn  till  the  closin-r  petition    released  the 
bendin-  worshippers,  and   the  Iiidden  face   was   up- 
turned with  the  re,t.     The  otiier  candidates  for  the 
holy  office  .juietly  resumed  their  seals  ;  but  Stephen, 
oblivious  to  them— a.  d  to  ,ill  d.-e  but  that  o:.  which 
his  eager  eyes  were  testing;— stood  where  he  was,  iiis 
gaze  still  rapt  upon  the  now  recognizable  f;icc. 

It  was  the  same  face  as  had  filled  his  waking 
thoughts  and  troubled  the  spirit  of  his  dreams.  The 
same  chaste  beauty  sat  upon  it— but  hnelier ;  for  the 
hght  of  faith  anil  trust,  that  comes  with  praver,  had 
softened  and  enhanced  its  charm.  Her  eyes  are  cast 
toward  himself,  the  emotion  that  bedews  them 
plainly  visible  in  the  down-streaming  light. 

She  must  have  felt  that  she  was  recognized  ;  for 
her  race  is  hidden  in  a  moment,  low-bowed  again, 
her  confusion  evident. 


T'4^ 

^p|i 

f 

220 


THE    UNDERTOIV 


"  Take  your  sc-at,  Mr.  Wishart— we're  just  about  to 
close,"  the  presiding  officer  wlii^pcred  to  the  man 
who  stood  transfixed  before  him. 

"  Excuse  me,"  faltered  Stephen,  "  I  tliou-ht  I  saw 
the  face  of  a  friend— excuse  me,  please;'  I'll  just 
step  down." 

"  We'll  be  concludinfj  in  a  moment— ail  thinj^s 
decently  and  in  order,  >-ou  know,"  and  the  Moderator 
smiled  his  most  amiable  smile. 

^  l^ut  his  tact  and  his  text  were  alike  in  vain; 
Stephen  had  already  descended  from  the  platform' 
and  begun  his  rapid  way  down  the  aisle.  Too  late 
—for  the  tall  figure  had  begun  her  retreat  as  he  de- 
scended. He  made  the  best  of  his  way  to  the  door 
—but  she  had  vanished  ;  and  in  a  few  minutes  he 
reentered  the  church,  his  new  commission  all  for- 
gotten, his  old  thirst  intensified  a  thousand  fold 
within  his  soul. 


The  end  of  his  transatlantic  sojourn  was  in  sight; 
and  the  date  for  his  homeward  sailing  was  already 
set.  Stephen  knew  that  what  he  would  do  must  be 
quickly  done.  That  Hattie  was,  or  had  been  until 
now,  m  the  same  city  with  himself,  was  now  plain- 
to  ascertain  her  whereabouts  and  to  meet  her  face 
to  face  became  the  business  of  his  life,  or  at 
least,  of  so  much  of  it  as  the  few  remaining  days  af- 
forded hmi.  His  enquiries  at  official  sources  only 
revealed  an  ignorance  which  in  his  bitterness  he 
branded  as  assumed;  or  else  it  provoked  the  most 


AN   EDINBURGH   l^ O I C E         221 

laconic  and  evasive  of  replies.  W  r.'orc  he  turned 
again  with  renewed  purpose  tc  he  oni>  :.!-  •^native 
left  him,  hauntin-  the  accustom  .d  'mtie-i]  -k; ,  of  the 
army  to  whicli  she  had  given  l-jr  ili-,  .;ian  .e.  .can- 
ning e\ery  Mjldierl>-  processiun  to  detect,  11  detect  he 
might,  the  face  he  had  sought  so  long. 

The  tardy  tuiliglit  had  at  length  fallen  upon  tile 
comely  city  as  he  bent  his  steps  one  evening  through 
the  motley  life  that  .trews  the  Caniiongate.  He  had 
almo.t  gained  the  foot  „f  the  .treet,  the  ancient 
shadow  of  Huiyruod  coming  forth  *o  meet  him, 
grim  in  its  reaction  hum  centuries  of  revehy ;  uheu' 
the  gleam  uf  a  tlammg  torch  and  the  .ound  oi  a 
gospel  h>mn  awoke  him  frou:  his  reverie. 

He  .stands  still,  ga/ing  eagerly.  A  man  is  i:, 
charge  of  the  meeting,  if  meeting  it  should  be 
called.  He  is  praying  now— a  loud  hectorin- 
prayer— emphaM/ed  by  many  a  stamp  of  his  hea\y 
foot  and  many  a  thump  upon  the  drum  beside  him. 
The  huid  prayer  is  finished;  and  the  suppliant 
looks  about  him,  peering  into  the  faces  of  the 
crowd,  if  haply  he  might  discern  how  far  it  is  likely 
to  be  answered. 

"  One  of  the  soldiers  is  agoin'  to  speak  to  ye? 
now,"  he  said,  "  and  she'll  tell  yez  about  the  picnic  ;  " 
which  the  soldier  thus  announced  proceeded  to  do 
right  heartily,  intimating  that  all  children  who  could 
produce  the  credential  of  sufficient  need  would  be 
provided  with  tickets,  on  application  at  headquarters. 
"  I  guess  you  all  know  about  it— the  kiddies  have 
been  dreaming  about  it  for  a  fortnight.     We're  going 


l\ 


222 


THE    UNDERTOIV 


M 


&,■■<' 


s 

-t    ■  ■■ 
1  ';ii 


to  Kimlachie,  hallelujah  !  A  gentleman  has  given  us 
his  estate  for  the  day.  We  don't  have  to  pay  any- 
thing, but  God'll  settle  with  him.  We're  going  to 
have  a  heavenly  time !  Remember,  we'll  leave  the 
VV'averly  Station  at  ten  to-morrow  morning." 

"  Now  we're  agoin'  to  have  a  word  from  one  of 
the  new  recruits-fire  a  volley !  "  he  cried,  turning  to 
the  soldiers. 

The  volley  was  fired  with  boistt    .  s  enthusiasm, 
and  the  new  recruit  stepped  forth,  the  light  from  one 
ol  the  torches  falling  distinctly  on  her  wavy  hair,  the 
delicate  pink  and  white  of  her  tender  skin  apparent 
beneath  its  glow  ;  her  neck  and  face  were  bathed  in 
the  gentle  flow  that  suffused  them  both,  attesting  the 
shrinking  of  a  nature  not  yet  accustomed  to  such 
publicity.     As  she  begins  to  speak,  her  ri-ht  hand  is 
gracefully  extended,  showing  clear  in  tli  ■  ruddy  light. 
Stephen  is  on  the  outskirts  of  the  group,  and^his 
heart  is  throbbing  wildly.     For  he  can  see  her  face, 
himself  half  hidden   behind  a  taller  listener.     And 
she  has  begun  to  speak,  the  rich  tones  none  other 
than  those  he  had  yearned  so  long  to  hear.     That  her 
voice  was  a  wonderful  gift,  he  had  known  for  long; 
but  to-night  it  seems  more  than  wondertul—for  its 
natural  sweetness  has  an  added  charm  that  only  sor- 
row can  impart,  mingling  with  it  the  nobler  note  of  a 
soul's  compassion. 

That  power  it  possessed,  which  no  culture  can  ac- 
quire, no  art  can  simulate ;  the  power  of  a  deep  and 
real  spiritual  experience. 
"  Dear  friends,  I  want  to  give  you  another  invita- 


y4N    EDINBURGH    yOlCE         223 

tion,"  she  began,  Stephen  trcmbhng  a.s  the  pure  soul 
brealhed  through  the  simple  words.  "And  I  want 
you  all  to  come.  You're  all  tired,  I'm  sure,  tired  of 
the  muddy  roads  and  the  du.^ly  streets.  And  jour 
feet  are  sore — and  your  hearts  are  heavj-.  Oh,  I 
want  you  all  to  come  and  rest — come  to  Jesus,  and 
He  will  give  you  peace. 

"  Oh,  it's  hard — it's  so  hard,"  she  went  on  eagerly, 
holding  out  both  hands  now,  her  voice  throbbing  with 
an  emotion  that  none  of  her  hearers  save  one  could 
understand — "  so  hard  to  be  wandering  and  homeless, 
especially  if  you  know  you  left  your  father's  or  your 
mother's  house ;  so  hard  to  feel  you  can't  prevent  it 
getting  dark;  and  to  know  there's  nobody  wants 
you — and  no  place  to  go — and  nothing  to  cat — and 
so  hungry.  Wouldn't  it  ju,>t  break  your  heart  if  any 
of  your  own  children  were  wandering  like  that  in  the 
slums  of  Edinburgh — or  Londo  "ell,  God's  \-our 

father — and  He  knows— He  care  I  want  you  to 

come.     Come  in  where  i.s  warm,  and  where  there's 
breau  to  eat,  and  sweet  rest  for  the  weary. 

"  And  there's  no  ticket — no  money — no  price  ;  for 
the  blessed  Saviour  has  bought  it  all  with  His  own 
precious  blood.  Oh,  come  to-night— come  just  as 
you  are,  and  Jesus  will  never  let  you  v/ander  any 
more." 

She  stopped,  the  leader  struck  up  the  familiar  hymn 
her  closing  words  suggested,  anil  the  procession  be- 
gan to  wend  its  way  to  the  barracks  on  Cameron 
Street. 

Stephen    followed    for   a  little,  his    whole    frame 


'^.^ 


224 


THE    UNDERTOIV 


hnllcd  with  emotion.     He  longed  to   rush  in-yet 
leared.     A  sort  C"  awe  possessed  him.     The  gulf  uxs 
a  moral  one.  though  he  did  not  .0  regard  it      lie 
feared  to  .ress  h.n,.,elf  on  her,  as  one  might  shrink 
from  rushmg  .„  upon  some  wliite-obed  pnest  serv- 
ing at  his  holy  altar.     1-ar  beyond  him.  he  felt  xividly 
enougn.  the  g.rl's  soul  had  passed  ;  thougli  she  was 
bu^  an  exhorter  of  the  street,  wh.le  he  w;L  the  min- 
iate -elect  01  a  proud  and  expectant  people 

l^ut  the  new  power  and  grace  that  seemed  to  clothe 
her  con.pu-,ng  w.th  the  thrall  in  which  her  beauty 
a  c  dy  held  hnn.  nlled  Inm  with  longing  as  never 
befo  c.  He  even  thought  of  the  uplift  to  lus  own 
^P.ntual  h.e,  the  assistance  to  his  own  work  in  the 
mmistry.  with  which  this  pure  and  devoted  spirit 
-.ht  provide  Inm.  And  .  sw.ft  prayer  ascends  Ihat 
this  auxiliary  might  not  be  denied  him. 

His  eyes  are  riveted  upon  the  willowy  form,  lightly 
c  ad.  as  she  presses  on  in  the  middle  of  the  high  wax- 
She  IS  at  the  rea^  for  her  promotion  is  yet  to  come 
He  can  wait  no  longer,  casts  a  quick  glance  about 
h.m  to  be  sure  that  his  action  will  be  unnoticed,  then 
plunges  out  into  the  street  and  takes  liis  place  beside 
the  girl,  graccfull)'  tapping  a  tambourine  as  she  walks 
"  Hattie."  he  said  gently,  "oh,  Hattie!  " 
She  turns  quickly;  a  swift   pallor   puts  the  flush 
upon  her  cheek  to  flight  as  her  glance  falls  upon  his 
lace      She  looks  again,  still  looking  as  [{  she  could 
not  believe  her  eyes-then  stands  still  an  instant,  emo- 
tion and  surprise  almost  overpowering  her 

"Mr.  VVishart-is    it   you?"    she'  cries  in  a  low 


J 


AN   EDINBURGH    yolCE         22s 

voice.  ••  Oh,  why  have  you  done  this  ?  Vou  l<i,eu-, 
you  kncu— you  must  <;.)  auay  at  once,  '  .he  ex- 
claimed, her  feet  mechanically  takin-  up  the  march 
again. 

Her  words  were  firm,  evidently  sincere,  alniu.t 
stern— but  .Stephen  notes,  seized  with  a  joy  he  had 
no  tune  to  anal.vze,  that  the  voice  is  tremblin-,  and 
that  beneath  ail  the  ama/ement  i.  a  note  of  -ladnc-s. 
ihe  tambourine,  too,  is  thrust  into  her  ri-ht  hand, 
the  lett  -oin-  „ut  involuntarily,  withdrawn  Tlmo.t  be- 
fore he  can  sei/e  it  m  his  own. 

•'  Hattie,  llattie— you.  won't  .send  me  away.  I've 
been  iook-in-  for  you  so  Ion-,"  he  almo.^t  whi.^pcred, 
a  world  of  fontine-,.  in  his  voice.  ••  Ml  -o— per- 
haps I'd  better  oo,-  he  added,  ••  but  tell  me  when  I 
can  see  you  a-ain,  Hattie— anywhere,  any  time- 
only  tell  nic  when." 

The  girl  turned  and  looked  into  his  face,  indiffer- 
ent to  the  curious  glances  thai  one  or  two  in  front 
cast  back  at  her. 

"  No.  I  won't  ask  you  to  go  away,"  she  said  im- 
pulsively after  a  moment,  her  voice  low  and  earnest  • 
"  I  want  you  to  come.  You're  a  soldier  of  the  cross 
too,  and  I  don't  want  you  to  fall  out.  It  was  you 
that  enlisted  me.  you  know,"  she  pursued,  turning 
and  smihng  sweetly  as  she  spoke  ;  "  and  I  think  it's 
lovely  for  us  to  march  together.  We'll  go  on  to  the 
Barracks-and  I'll  ask  the  adjutant  to  have  you  speak 
at  the  mcetincf." 

"  Yes,  ril  go,  Hattie,"  Stephen  answered  fervently, 
her  last  words  lost  upon  him  in  his  eagerness ;  for  it 


226 


7 HE    U^DERTOIV 


was  enough  to  him  to  know  that  he  was  beside  her 
again ;  "  and  I've  so  much  to  tell  you— so  much.  I 
saw  you  in  the  church  the  night  I  was  licensed— and 
didn't  you  see  me  ?  " 

"  We're  not  allowed  to  talk  when  we're  marching, 
and  you're  out  of  step,  see.  I  want  you  to  be  a  good 
soldier,  you  know;"  and  it  was  difficult  to  tell 
whether  there  was  more  of  mirth  or  seriousness  in 
the  words. 

Little  of  speech  there  was  as  they  trudged  along 
the  muddy  street,  llattic's  clear  voice  now  and  then 
lending  itself  to  the  song  that  cheered  the  way. 

Stephen  was  content  to  be  silent,  to  feel  that  he 
had  found  her,  that  he  was  near  to  her  again,  and 
that  his  hunger  of  the  heart  was  strangely  satisfied  in 
simply  knowing  that  she  was  by  his  side. 

Their  mutual  relation  had  been  strangely  reversed 
since  that  chilly  night  in  London  when  they  first 
had  met.  For  his  admiration  now  was  of  the  very 
spirit  he  himself  had  coveted  for  long,  but  had  not 
the  courage  to  acquire  ;  in  every  spiritual  .ense  she 
was  now  the  protector,  and  his  the  soul  that  needed 
shelter. 

They  are  near  the  Barracks  now,  and  the  street  on 
which  it  stands  is  aflame  with  light.  Looking  about, 
he  notices,  dismayed,  that  two  famili.ir  figures  are 
beneath  the  lamp.  One  is  Mather,  and  the  other  a 
mutual  friend  whom  they  had  acquired  in  the  social 
life  to  which  Edinburgh  gi\cs  its  student  visiters  so 
free  a  welcome. 

They  are  both  looking  toward  the  approaching 


AN   EDINBURGH   ^^0/CE         22^ 

procession  ;  an  army  on  the  march  can  never  lose  its 
interest  tor  the  must  cultured  or  contemptuous. 

The  struggle  in  Stephen's  mind  was  brief. 

"  Hattie,"  he  said  ^luickly,  the  expedient  suddenly 
occurring  tu  him.  ••  I'm  going  tn  do  a  litt'e  skirmish 
work— I  see  a  couple  of  loungers  and  I'm  going  to 
invite  them  into  the  barracks— you'll  excuse  me, 
won't  you  ?  ' 

"  That's  splendid,"  Hattie  cried,  her  face  beaming; 
"  I'll  command  >  ..u.  You  see,  I'm  getting  tu  be  an 
old  soldier  now— I  command  you  to  go  and  compel 
them  to  come  in.  And  I  want  you  to  speak,  re- 
member." 

He  left  her,  crossing  at  right  angles  to  the  pave- 
ment, remarking  with  satisfaction  that  his  friends 
were  still  absorbed  with  the  head  of  the  procession. 
Gaining  the  sidewalk,  he  walked  leisurely  along  till 
he  reached  them,  much  reassured  by  their  surprise  at 
Ips  appearance. 

"  By  Jove,"  he  heard  the  other  say  to  Mather,  "  I 
haven't  seen  a  prettier  girl  in  Edinburgh  than  that  one 
there  with  the  tambourine— that  one  at  the  end. 
Hello,  Wishart,  are  you  the  marshal  ?  "  as  Stephen 
suddenly  appeared. 

"Hello,  you  fellows,"  he  rejoined;  "no,  I'm  the 
commander-in-chief.  Won't  you  fellows  go  in  and 
enlist  ?  "  he  added,  genially.  "  I'll  go  in  if  you  will 
— will  you  go  ?  " 

The  men  promptly  ('cclined— one  of  them  laughed 
at  the  witticism.  15ut  Mather's  face  was  serious 
enough :    "  might    do   a   mighty   sight   worse,"   he 


•■i 


328 


THE   UNDERTOH/ 


mumbled.     "  I'd  sooner  be  those  fellows,  if  I  meant 
it,  than  be  an  actor  in  St.  Giles." 

"  Then  you  won't  go  in  ?  "  Stephen  asked.  "  I 
think  you're  making  a  mistake ;  let's  walk  down  to 
Princes  Street— I  haven't  long  in  Edinburgh  now 
and  there's  only  one  other  city  with  a  street  like 
that." 

"  Where  is  it  ?  "  his  companions  asked  together. 
"  In     the     \cw    Jerusalem,"    laughed    Stephen ; 
"  come  on,  it's  getting  late." 


^.» 


"^/i< 


rant 


"I 

1  to 
low 
like 

r. 
en; 


■'■£ 


XVIII 
PURSUING    Tlir   P  R.  F  C I O  U  S  PEARL 

STErilKX  had  not  lorjjottcn  the  hour  at  which 
the  kiml  hearted  soldier  had  bidden  tlie  ex- 
pectant children  f;ather  at  Waverly  Station. 
And  long  before  ten  o'clock  Stephen  was  there  him- 
selt,  a  trifling  fee  securing  him  the  ambush  of  ti;c 
baggage  office  and  the  outlook  fr(jni  it>  window. 
From  which  he  watched  the  moving  scene  with  eyes 
that  were  often  blurred  with  tears. 

On  they  came,  in  breathless  hasic,  early,  .-,0  early, 
though  they  were.  Mostly  in  twos  and  twos  they 
came,  bare-headed  some— and  all  unshod— their  need 
attested  by  a  hundred  fluttering  tongues.  Many  had 
their  mothers  with  them,  as  excited  as  their  offspring, 
themselves  barred  from  the  excursion,  but  dnnkinii 
deep  of  their  children's  j  ••.  Pitter-patter  came  the 
httle  bare  feet  along  the  pavement  in  quick  agitated 
steps,  the  pilgrims  glancing  hither  and  thither  in 
nameless  fear  lest  the  train  had  gone,  so  used  were 
they  to  the  elusiveness  of  all  anticipated  pleasures. 

Brief  and  solemn  salutations  passed  between  hur- 
rying mothers  ;  between  their  children,  none  at  all. 
And  many  of  tlie  motherless,  or  worse  than  mother- 
less, were  there,  guarded  by  older  sisters  wliosc  sense 
of  responsibility  was  pitiful  to  see.  Tenderly  they 
clung  to  the  tiny  hands,  pi.-nging  this  way  and  that 

229 


ijj^-. 


^AM 


2yO 


•THE    UXDHRTOIV 


in  thc.r  scare!,  for  the  coveted  positions  tiut  l.n-.  cv- 
pcn.-nce  had  n>ade  then,  tlunk  could  scarce  be  thehs 
-.tl>out  a  savage  stru..ie.  S,.,„e  u.re  bear,„.  " 
niUKS  otl,er.  uuh  the  sad  ren.a.ns  of  ball  or  bat  ' 
hoop  or  .hovel,  that  they  vaguely  felt  mig|,t  r,nd  a 
place  .n  the  Lly.^an  fields  be>-o„d 

Ihe  croud  ..tlnckuun.   the  co„,bat  deepening; 
^r  t  .       ar,   be.n,  entra.ned.     Stephen  u  J  ah.^ 

aid     h\       "'  '""  '"■  '"'^"^'  '"  --I'-inotap- 
I  cared-bu     all   o.   a   sudden   he   de^cr.es    it   ui  the 

cipuKc  gloum,  w,h  the  lH,h  indu.trv  ,,,-  1,'^^ 
]  c  breaks  out  fron,  h,s  huiu,.  place  ;  thJn  retrains 
h.--!.   and   returns-for  a  ne.  purpose  ha.  con.e 

inJwitr^"'''^r'"^'^''^^^-''''^^-'M-lP'tat- 
v\Jieel>  have  begun  to  turn. 

Tlu:n  Stephen  ru.hes  out.  tnru>ts  a  generous  coin 
•nto  the  hand  of  one  of  the  attendants  as  he  pulls 
open  the  compartment  door  ^ 

•-It's  for  the  children/'he  says,  "and  Imgoin.. 

.U.y^_ni  Help  amu^e  them;  "and  he  seat.^unv 
^It  "  the  carnage,  taking  on  his  knee  the  grimy 
traveller  he  had  chsplaced.  ^ 

than  ^s  '  ""  "'  '"'-'  ""'''•  '^'^  '^  ^^'^■-  ■'"''^  n^'-e 
heart  .  And  m  an  hour  Stephen's  soul  is  a-ain  in 
tumult,  as  he  sees  the  Arabs  sp.Iled  into  th  1    dT 

fonh  T'  T'  '''  ^"'■^^■^■'-^  -^^-'>-  poured 
forth.  Tumult,  we  have  said-for  there  is  no  jo;-  so 
deep  as  that  which  springs  from  sorrow  ;  no  pathos  so 


PURSUING   The  PRECIOUS  PEARL      2U 

plaintive  a.  tiiat  n  liicii  mark,-,  the  joy,  the  Minpk-  and 
unnatural  joy,  ui  tlio>c  who  come  into  the  herita-e 
they  >houUl  have  never  been  denied,  hearing  at  Lilt 
the  provision,  ol  then-  Father's  will,  marvellin-  at 
the  riches  from  which  cruel  executors  iuive  shut 
tl.em  out. 

Icars  run  down  his  face  as  he  watcher  the  en- 
chanted waiN,  now  ,caniperin,i,'  in  deliriou.^  ^rj^.^.  „ou- 
shoutin-  in  incredulous  deli-ht,  now  stooi)in-  to 
pluck  >onie  brilliant  llower.  now  leaving  it  half 
plucked  because  of  some  richer  bloom  beyond. 


The  morning   has  died  in  laughter,  and  the 


on; 


dinner  hour  tuo  has  ^one— gone  into  the  immortal 
keeping  of  a  thu,i-a,ul  memories.  Stei)hen  has 
watched  it  all  from  the  shelter  of  a  distant  tree,  mov- 
mg  back  to  the  fringe  of  woodland  whenever  the  aj)- 
proach  of  one  particular  form  made  it  advisable  to 
retreat. 

^^'•■*h  what  strong  arms  she  flung  forth  the  creak- 
ing ..vving,  echoing  with  childish  shtnits !  Wuh 
what  tenderne-ss  he  saw  her  bind  the  poor  foot  that  a 
thorn  had  ijierced  or  a  stone  iiad  wounded,  bathing  it 
at  the  sparkling  brook  !  And  what  would  he  not 
have  given,  could  he  but  have  heard  that  wondrous 
story  that  could  alone  explain  the  breathless  group 
about  her.  looking  up  into  the  face  tliat  glowed  with 
the  spirit  of  the  tale!  And  blessed,  thrice  blessed, 
were  those  smudgy  hands  that  had  pinned  that  bunch 
of  violets  upon  licr  bosom  ! 

She  must  be  tired  now ;  for  Stephen  can  see  her  as 


'  '^ 


..-•,  tr.'*5j 


^h.  .'>^'i."^ 


3« 


•THE    UNDERTOIV 


she  quietly  witluiraws  from  the  group  ol  children  she 
has  just  launched  upon  their  game, 

Sloul>-  .he  walks   alon-;  the  wold,  her   face  turned 
touard   the   frn,;;e  of  woods  beyond  him.      He  Imles 
behmd  an  adju.n.ng  knoll.  st.U  watching  as  she  bends 
her  way   farther   ,nto  the   protectniL:  shad.-ws      Th,. 
volets  are   m   her  hand  and   .he  drink,  ul  the.r  frv 
grancea>  .he  walks.      He  follow,  .teaklnly-hou  fn.l- 
.^'h   ,s   the   mu,d   of  love,  affirming  secretly  that  no 
fabnc   ever  lluttered  so  gracefully  a.  d„c.  that  y.eld- 
."k'   mus  m.  tossing  in  the  breeze,  or  pout.ng  as  it  h 
thrown  th.s  way  and  that  by  the  hurrving  feet       I    ,r 
she  ,s   hurrymg  nou-.  the  sweet  vo.ce  ui   the  woods 
callmg  her  n>., re  quickly  on.  eager  for  their  shelter 
and  caress. 

She  has  thrown  herself  upon  a  .unlit  couch  cf 
richest  green,  drmking  deep  of  the  delicious  c,,ect. 
ness  from  the  trees,  ga.ing  in  delight  at  tl,e  beams 
that  fall  aslant  through  the  glcaminr  leaves.  The 
spirit  of  her  early  home  is  upon  her.  and  the 
dream  3{  all  its  sylvan  purity  and  innocence  comes 
back.  Down  the  stream  of  memory  her  thourrhts 
quickly  flow— and  soon  he  sees  her  liand  go  forth  to 
the  soft  folds  of  her  dress,  some  wl,ite  thing  with- 
drawn  in  its  grasp. 

The  breeze  is  chattering  among  the  leaves—and  he 
can  draw  closer  without  being  heard.  I  fe  is  almost 
bchmd  her  now  ;  and  his  heart  leaps  wikih-  as  he  sees 
that  the  letter  she  is  reading  is  his  own.      ' 

As  she  reads,  her  bosom  heaves  more  violcnth-,  and 
fte  can  note  the  girl's  emotion  from  where  he  stands 


PL'RSL7.\G  Jin-  PKECIOUS  PEARL      ^,, 

Again  her  hruul  nrocs  to  ulicre  the  letter  h.ul  been 
hidden,  thi.  lime  brin-in-  tV.rth  the  tiny  h.uulker- 
chiel— perhap^  tiie  very  one  he  had  seen  that  ni;;ht 
that  now  seenuil  so  Ion"  a"o. 

ni->  ea-crnev,  now  i>  beyond  all  contml.  He 
.suear.  to  lum^ell  that  Gmj ,,,  -,.od— that  I  le  ha.  meant 
her  tor  li.tn  iroui  all  eternity.  The  .umnier  v.in.I 
.\ve-_p.s  throu-h  the  trees  a-ain.  as  with  the  soluu!  nf 
triumph  ;  the  embannered  leaves  cheer  it  with  myriad 
voice;  the  sun  breaks  forth  more  bri-htly— and  all 
things  seem  to  sprak  of  life's  passin.L;  sweetne-.  1  le 
moves,  meaning,'  her  to  hear— but  she  is  readin-.  still 
-'.bsorbed— anil  his  movement  is  unnoticed.  Then  he 
makes  a  distincter  motion— and  m  a  moment  llattie 
is  upon  her  feet,  tremblinL,'  in  every  limb. 

But  never  a  so,,nd  she  -poke— gating,  gazing  its  if 
he  had  risen  from  the  dead. 

"  Hattie— don't  be  so  frightened,  Hattie— please  sit 
down  again.  I  came  out  on  the  train  with  the  chil- 
dren.    Let  me  sit  down  beside  you." 

His  eyes,  careles.  that  she  knew,  were  feasting  on 
the  letter  she  still  held  in  her  hand.  liut  she  .hJ 
know,  as  her  crimson  face  made  clear;  and  with  a 
quick  motion  she  tluust  it  out  of  sight. 

"  Yes.  it's  your— of  course  it's  yours,"  she  ^aid 
blushing;.'!  always  read  letters  ,,ver  more  than 
once.  •  she  went  on  defiantly  ;  "  I  <,nly  read  it  because 
1  wanted  to  see  what  it  said." 

There  was  a  long  silence.     Stephen  said  nothing, 
holding  the  explanation  in  rapturous  contempt. 
"  How  did  you    x-t  here  ?  "  Hattie  said  .••.'■  i>-:«- 


iM 


2)4 


THE    UNDERTOIV 


"  Me— I  came  on  the  train.     I  told  you  so." 
"  Why  weren't  you  at  the  Barracks  last  night  ?     I 
was  looking  for  you  ;  I  was  so  disappointed— I  wanted 
you  to  speak  to  them,"— this  last  with  sudden  em- 
phasis. 

"I  met  a  couple  of  fellows  I  knew— and  they 
wouldn't  go  in,"  Stephen  replied,  "  and  I  went  along 
to  Trinces  Stieet  with  them." 

"I'm  so  sorry;  we  had  such  a  lovely  meeting. 
And  there  were  two  conversions— came  right  out  into 
the  light,  and  everybody  was  so  happy.  When  are 
you  going  back  to  Edinburgh  ?  " 

"  1  don't  know— with  the  others,  I  suppose.  I'm 
going  away  the  day  after  to-morrow." 

"Going  away!  Away  where?"  and  the  colour 
that  left  Hattie's  face  found  its  abode  in  Stephen's ; 
"are  you  going  back  to  London?" 

"  No— I'm  going  home,"  he  answered,  watching 
her  closely.     "  I  sail  on  Saturday." 

"  Sail !  Where  for  ?  "  the  girl  asked,  her  lip  mov- 
ing in  the  slightest  quiver,  "  where  will  you  sail  to  ?  " 
"  To  Montreal— then  I  go  home  from  there.  And 
then  I'm  going  to  Hamilton  to  be  the  minister  of  the 
Church  of  the  Covenant.  I  told  you  all  aboi  t  it  that 
afternoon  in  Hyde  Park." 

"  Yes,  you  told  me  I  hope  you'll  be  happy— I 
hope  you'll  have  lots  of  conversions,"  she  added 
seriously.  "  I'm  so  happy  in  my  work— and  I  want 
you  to  be  happy  too— we're  both  soldiers  of  the 
cross,  you  know,"  the  delicate  lips  smiling  bravely  as 
she  spoke. 


& 


PURSUING  The  PRECIOUS  PEARL      235 

"  Hattie,  Where's  that  cross  of  yours  ? "  he  asked 
abruptly.  She  started  and  looked  at  him  as  if  she 
did  not  understand. 

"  Oh.  my  cross— my  mother's  cross."  .-he  said  in  a 
moment ;  "  it's  here— it's  always  here,"  and  she  drew 
it  forth  with  reverent  touch. 

He  gazed  at  it  as  it  lay  upon  her  bosom.  "  Hattie 
—I'll  try  to  be  a  good  soldier  of  the  cross.  And  I'll 
never,  never  forget  this  one  of  yours— I  love  it  be- 
cause you  do." 

"  I  do  love  it,"  she  broke  in  eagerly,  •'  oh,  I  do  love 
It — and  I  want  to  be  worthy  of  it — and  to  tell  its 
power  to  everybody  that  needs  it.  If  I  weren't  so 
unworthy,  I  wouldn't  love  it  so,"  she  cried,  the  tears 
standing  in  her  eyes. 

Stephen  was  struggling.  The  light  of  love,  of  pity, 
of  pure  religion,  was  on  her  face,  never  so  beautiful 
as  now  when  the  sun's  rays  gently  kissed  the  tran- 
parent  cheek,  her  sunny  hair  blending  with  the 
golden  glint.  He  can  see  the  mist  before  her  c\-cs. 
and  a  strange  union  of  compassion  and  reverence 
wrings  his  heart. 

"  Yes,  Hattie,"  he  suddenly  exclaimed.  "  I  shall  al- 
ways love  the  cross  because  you  wear  it,"  and,  stoop- 
ing forward,  he  took  the  tiny  symbol  in  his  iian.ls 
and  raised  it  gently  to  his  lips.  Her  breath.  n\  mail- 
dening  sweetness,  is  on  his  face. 

"  I  thought  you  were  a  Presbyterian,"  she  said,  the 
witching  smile  playing  again  about  her  mouth.  "  I'll 
tell  that  old  lady  that  keeps  John  Kno.x's  house  on 
the  High  Street." 


2^6 


•THE    UNDERTOIV 


But  there  was  no  smile  on  Stephen's  face.  A 
rapturous  look  instead,  fastened  on  her  till  her  eyes 
retreated  before  the  wondrous  meaning  she  could  not 
fail  to  see.  Nor  did  he  turn  his  eyes  away,  still  look- 
ing with  fervent  eagerness. 

"  Let's  go  back,"  she  cried  faintly  at  last,  '•  they'll 
miss  me." 

But  the  billow  had  overswept  him  now. 

"  Yes,  my  darhng,"  he  cried,  "yes,  they'll  miss  you 
—they'll  miss  you.     As  I  have  done,  Hattie,  Hattie, 

my  darling.     You  know— you  know "  and  the 

half  fainting  form  is  in  his  arms,  weakly  protesting  as 
she  hears  the  fiery  words.  "  Oh,  Hattie,  you  are 
mine — you  know  you're  mine,"  he  cried;  and  the 
breeze  seemed  to  die  away,  great  peace  keeping  guard 
above  them,  the  faint  sound  of  childish  cries  betoken- 
ing a  distant  world.  "  You've  always  been  mine— 
and  I  shall  never  let  you  go — mine,  ever  since  that 
night,  my  darling,"  and  one  hand  strokes  the  burning 
cheek  while  the  other  gently  turns  the  lovely  face 
nearer  to  his  own. 

Reverently,  his  lips  descend  slowly  upon  hers, 
moist  with  love's  anointing— and  Stephen  tastes  the 
new  and  nameless  wine  of  a  soul  that  has  found  its 
own  in  pure  and  holy  love  at  last. 

Long,  long  they  sat  together,  forgetting  that 
there  was  any  waiting  world — or  any  duty— or 
any  mystery,  except  the  new  found  mystery  of 
love. 

"  Oh,  Stephen,"  Hattie  said  at  length,  "we  must 
go  back.     It  seems  to  me,"  she  added,  as  her  hand 


PURSUING  The  PRECIOUS  PEARL      2^1 

stole  again  into  his,  "  that  I  said  that  same  thing 
years  ago — it  seems  hke  years  ago." 

"  So  long,"  Stephen  asked,  "  what  makes  it  seem 
so  long  ?  " 

"  Oh,  it's  like  as  if  a  lot  of  years  had  passed — and 
all  winters— all  cold,  cold  winters.  And  this  seems 
hke  the  first  spring  day.  I'm  so  happy,  dear— and  to 
think  it  was  for  all  this  God  led  me  out  into  the  dark- 
ness—into the  forest.  But  the  sweetest  llowers  grow 
in  the  forest — we  know  that,  don't  we,  dear  ? "  she 
cried  gayly  as  Stephen  kissed  the  trembling  laughing 
lips. 

They  are  almost  beyond  the  woodland  now,  the 
shout  of  the  revellers  gro\'  ng  more  distinct.  Hattie 
suddenly  turned  and  hid  her  face  on  Stephen's 
shoulder ;  a  slight  sob  shook  her  frame. 

"  What's  the  matter,  Hattie ;  what's  the  matter,  my 
darling  ?  " 

Only  silence  for  a  moment.  He  pleads  again, 
turning  his  ear,  ravished  by  their  breath,  to  the  sweet 
pouting  lips.     At  length  she  whispers  : 

"  It's  about  Saturday— oh,  Stephen,  you  won't  go 
away  from  me — tell  me  you  won't." 

Gently  he  tried  to  comfort  her,  sinking  to  the 
ground  and  drawing  her  down  beside  him.  "  I  must, 
my  dear  one— I  have  to  go.  I  have  to  take  my 
church,  you  know — and  they're  waiting  for  me." 

Still  she  remonstrated  with  sweet  persuasiveness. 

"  I've  had  such  a  lonely  life,"  she  murmured,  "  and 
now  it'll  be  worse  than  ever.  I'll  be  all  alone  again, 
Stephen." 


i 


238 


THE    UNDERTOW 


His  eyes  are  fixed  on  unseen  glades,  peering  back 
into  the  woods.  They  see  nothing— nothing  out- 
ward. But  had  any  seen  his  face  they  might  have 
known  that  a  great  resolve  was  forming.  Still  he 
gazes,  still  absorbed  in  some  thought  that  had  evi- 
dently gripped  his  soul. 

The  girl  .feels  the  silence  and  nestles  closer,  as  if 
she  would  provoke  some  response  to  her  plaintive 
words.  His  resolve  is  taken  ;  for  his  arms  tighten 
about  her,  and  his  face  is  bended  low. 

"  Hattie,  my  darling— you  know  I  love  you,  don't 
you  ?  God  knows  it ;  knows  my  soul  is  yours— and 
His.  And  Hattie— Hattie,  it's  to  be  till  death,  isn't 
it,  my  darling  ?  " 

The  fluttering  heart  made  answer. 
"  Then,  Hattie,  there's  something  I'm  going  to  say 
— I  say  it  before  God  and  you— and  you  shan't  deny 
me."  Then  he  takes  her  anew  into  his  arms,  his  lips 
to  her  very  ear,  whispering  slowly.  She  listens, 
breathless.  Trembling,  she  trembles  closer.  "  Oh, 
Stephen,  don't,"  she  falters,  "  don't— oh,  Stephen." 

Whereat  he  insists  afresh  ;  and  renews  his  quest 
with  redoubled  power  and  insistence. 

The  ill-matched  struggle  is  soon  over.  "  Stephen, 
my  darling— oh,  Stephen,"— she  is  sobbing  fast— 
"  don't  force  me— let  it  be  my  will— my  wish.  And 
it  is,  Stephen—I  think  it  is.  I  will— yes— I  will. 
You  really  think  God  wants  us  to  ?  Oh,  yes,  I  will— 
I  will— only  let  it  be  all  over  quick,"  she  cried,  the 
tears  flowing  hot  as  she  clung  to  him  for  some  un- 
known protection. 


m-^ 


i 


PURSUING  The  PRECIOUS  PEARL      239 

Whereat  he  kissed  her  again  and  again,  calling  her 
tender  names,  and  soothing  her  as  though  she  had 
been  wounded  by  some  unseen  shaft. 

"  You'll  never  be  sorry,  Hattie— no,  please  God, 
you'll  never  be  sorry,"  he  whispered  as  he  caressed 
her ;  "  come,  let  us  be  going — the  sun  is  sinking." 

Together  tliey  started  on  through  the  angle  o\  the 
woods  to  where  the  hamlet  could  be  seen  in  the 
distance. 

She  waited  in  the  churchyard  while  Stephen  was 
gone,  her  mind  numb  with  a  sort  of  singing  joy.  He 
soon  came  hack,  the  necessary  errand  o\cr — the 
necessary  warrant  in  his  hand. 

The  aged  minister,  in  his  flowing  gown,  led  the 
way  into  the  ancient  church,  his  gentle  wife  and  their 
one  faithful  servant  following  in  the  rear.  And  as 
the  trembling  hands  were  laid  upon  their  heads  in 
blessing,  committing  these  unknown  to  one  another 
and  to  God,  the  unbidden  sun  stole  in  and  closed  his 
far  flung  labours  of  the  day,  kissing  into  beauty  the 
glistening  drops  that  spoke  the  bridal  joy. 

"  Stephen,"  she  asked  as  they  were  walking  slowly 
back,  and  he  could  scarcely  hear  the  words ;  "  are 
you  still  going  away  ?  " 

"  Yes,  my  darling,"  he  replied  with  de-^perate 
promptness—for  his  mind  had  not  been  unbusied  with 
the  thought. 

"  Away  from  me  ?  " 

"  Yes,  darling — 1  must  go.  Don't  make  it  harder, 
dear." 


& 


240 


THE    UNDERTOIV 


A  long  pause  followed. 

"  I  shan't  make  it  harder,  Stephen."  Then  silence 
once  more. 

Soon  the  voice  spoke  again,  trembling  pain- 
fully. 

"  Stephen,  are  you  going  to  take  me  witli  you  ?  " 

In  answer  he  poured  his  love  and  devotion  at  her 
feet.  All  he  said  is  not  for  us  to  know  ;  but  all  the 
impossibility — and  unwisdom— of  it  was  laid  bare, 
the  brave  heart  bearing  it  as  best  she  could. 

"  Stephen,  I'm  your  wife— am  I  not,  Stephen— 
anyhow — always  ?  " 

"  iMy  darling,  my  own,"  he  murmured ;  "  and  it 
will  not  be  long.  And  I'll  tell  them  all— tell  them 
all  aboLit  you,  and  how  I  love  you.  And  I'll  soon 
come  back  for  you— or  send  for  you.  But  they 
wouldn't  understand  now,  as  I  explained  to  you— 
they're  such  sensitive  people." 

"  I'll  try  to  be  brave  and  strong.  But  you  must 
pray  for  me,  Stephen — you  must  help  me,  for  you're 
stronger  than  I  am.  And  I'll  always  pray  for  you, 
my — my  husband,"  she  said,  smiling  sweetly  up  to 
his  bending  face. 

"  Yes,  my  darling,  I  know  you  will — and  you'll  go 
on  with  your  work,  Hattie  ;  and  I'll  go  on  with  mine. 
And  soon  we'll  begin  our  work  together — never, 
never  to  part  again,  my  dearest,"  he  assured  her,  his 
whole  soul  in  the  words. 

"  Hattie,  I'm  going  to  tell  you  something,"  he  sud- 
denly resumed—"  something  I've  always  been  afraid 
of— but  it's  all  past  now." 


PURSUING  r/ie  PRECIOUS  PEARL      241 


"What?"  she  asked  hastily,  herseh"  alarmed; 
"  what  was  it,  Stephen — anything  about  us  two?  " 

"  No,  my  darlinj:^ — I'll  tell  you.  I  ought  to  tell 
you  anyhow.     Vou  know,   Hattie,    I've   not  always 


been  good." 


It,"  she    protested  ; 


all   good 


"  1    don't    believe 
people  say  that." 

"  No,  I'm  serious,  liattic — listen  to  me.  I've  been 
far  from  good.  I  can't  rell  you  how — and  I  was  al- 
ways afraid  God  would  punish  me  b)-  teaching  me  to 
love,  and  then  letting  me  see  I  couldn't — I  couldn't — 
have  the  one  I  loved.  And  I  was  almost  sure  of  it 
when  I  thought  I  had  lost  you,  my  darling.  But  it's 
all  past  now — I  never  believed  in  the  love  of  God  as 
I  do  now.  I  see  He  has  forgiven  me  everything  ; 
what  I  feared  is  all  past  and  gone — and  my  life's  hap- 
piness is  sure  now,  my  darling." 

"  Yes,  God  is  good,"  Hattie  murmured  happily  ; 
"  nobody  really  knows  it  but  me." 

"  And  me,  Hattie— and  me  !  Yes,  the  cloud's  all 
gone  now — and  I'll  try  to  forget — like  God  has  for- 
gotten ;  "  and  his  face  shone  with  the  peace  he 
thought  was  his  forever. 

For  Stephen  had  forgotten  that  there  are  full  twelve 
hours  in  God's  unhasting  day. 


XIX 


OLD  SCENES  and   OLD   STRUGGLES 


N 


O,  it's  not  so  beautiful  perhaps— but  it's 
their   )\vn." 

The  speaker,  who  was  none  other  than 
Stephen  Wishart,  felt  a  thrill  of  gladness  such  as  the 
stately  homes,  and  the  mighty  oaks,  and  the  rolling 
hillsides  of  old  England,  had  never  started  in  his 
heart  by  their  beauty. 

Past  many  a  humble  farmhouse,  beautiful  in  its 
contentment ;  past  many  a  whistling  toiler,  following 
his  horses  on  their  homeward  way  ;  past  many  a  low^ 
ing  herd  with  their  faces  seriously  set  toward  home  ; 
past  slowly  darkening  woods  ;  and  over  many  an  un- 
resting stream,  donning  more  sober  garments  for  the 
long  journey  of  the  night,  the  train  bore  him 
quickly  on. 

"  Aye.  je're  richt  there,"  replied  the  man  in  the 
seat  beside  him,  Richard  Reynoldson  by  name; 
"  a\-e,  castles  is  graun  i'  their  way,  nae  doot— but  I'd 
raither  hae  a  bit  hoose  I  cud  call  my  ain,  as  a  castle 
whaur  I  was  little  better  as  a  slave.  Yon  man  owns 
his  land— an'  yon  man— an"  that's  the  widow  Broon's. 
She  sent  twa  o'  her  sons  to  the  college— an'  she  was 
a  milkin'  maid  i'  Scotland.  It'll  no'  be  lang  noo  till 
ye  can  see  yir  faither's  farm." 


0Z.0  SCENES  and  OLD  STRUGGLES    243 

"  I'll  bo  ri}:jht  glad  to  sec  it  again,"  said  Stephen, 
gazing  far  ahead  out  of  the  window  ;  "  how's  every- 
thing going  witli  them  ?  " 

"  Oh,  graun— fair  graun.  Did  ye  no'  hear  o"  their 
guid  fortune  ? " 

"  ^o — what  ?  I  lave  they  struck  anything  particu- 
larly good?"  Stephen  asked  eagerly. 

"  I  should  say  they  hae.  Tiiey've  been  findin'  ile 
near  the  village— an'  they're  borin'  for  ile  on  yir 
faither's  farm.  An'  there's  nae  doot  they'll  find  it. 
It's  mair  nor  likely  they  hae  it  already." 

"  You  don't  mean  to  say  so,"  Stephen  cried ; 
"  isn't  that  splendid  ?  " 

"  That's  no'  a' — timber's  gone  till  a  fearsome 
price.  An"  yir  faither.  ye  ken,  aye  keepit  that  bush 
o'  his — he  was  aye  a  far  seein'  man,  yir  faither.  An' 
it's  the  best  o"  pine,  as  ye  ken.  Weel,  a  Syndicate's 
been  after  it;  an'  they've  offert  Kim  thoosands— 
thoosands  mind,  I'm  tellin'  ye — for  his  bush.  An' 
he'll  get  mair  yet.  So  he'll  strike  ile,  the  yin  way  or 
the  ither." 

The  conversation  flowed  on  in  various  channels, 
Stephen  enquiring  for  sundry  neighbours  and  ac- 
quaintances of  the  old  days. 

"  Aye,    maistly   a'    the    countryside's    been    weel, 
thank  God.    It's   a  guid  wholesome  land  to  live  in— 
the  saddest  thing  was  aboot  the  Burnetts— ye  ken 
aboot  them,  nae  doot." 

Stephen  started,  turning  toward  the  man  with 
more  eagerness  than  he  himself  was  aware  of. 

"  No,  what  ?     I've  heard  nothing,  Mr.  Reynold- 


■tfiiia 


244 


•THE    UNDERTO^y 


son.     Tell  nic  quick,  please — noliiing  about — about 
— Miss  Burnett,  is  it  ?  "  his  face  nuticeably  pale. 

"  Xa,  na,  she's  a'  richt — only  bair  pit  aboot,  as  ye 
micht  e.xpect.  An'  she's  had  to  pit  her  mairraj^e  at'f, 
nae  clout.  Ve  ken  aboot  her  an'  Reuben,  of 
course."*  " 

"  Yes,  yes— but  what's  she  sore  put  about  for? 
You  haven't  told  me." 

"  Her  faither  went  till  his  rest  less  th-  n  a  month 
past.  I  daurna  say  where  he  went  for  certain,  nae 
doot— for  that's  wi'  God.  But  I'm  hopin'_he  had 
dyin'  grace,  they  say.  I  thocht  ye  kent  it;  they 
wrote  till  ye." 

"  Yes,"  Stephen  interrupted,  his  features  showing 
his  agitation  ;  "  but  I  sailed  two  weelcs  ago  or  so,  and 
the  letter  wouldn't  be  there  by  that  time.  How  are 
Bessie  and  her  mother  ?  " 

"  Bessie's  wecl.  An'  her  mither's  better  far,  I'm 
hopin' — but  it's  no'  for  me  to  say,"  the  man  replied 
gravely. 

"  Better  far !     What  do  you   mean  ?     You  don't 

mean ?  " 

"  Aye,  that's  what  I'm  mranin',  Stephen.  She 
wasna  lang  ahint  him — a  week  or  thereaboots.  It 
was  the  will  o'  God— and  bad  wattcr  frae  th-  well  ; 
ower  close  to  the  stable,  they  say.  That  was  what 
ailed  them  baith— they  drank  frae  the  same  well  for 
forty  year.  An'  she  had  dyin  grace,  they  tell  me— 
yon  was  a  deeper  spring  they  aye  drank  frae 
thegither.  I  was  i:  'all-bearer,"  he  added,  a  touch 
of  pride  in  his  voice ;  "  an'  that  maks  thirtv-five— 


OLD  SCENES  and  OLD  STRUGGLES    34s 

that's  yin  ^n'ul  turn  a.s  never  ^cts  anithcr.  "  And  the 
stronr;  Sci'icli  face  looked  niourntiilly  out  upon  the 
fields,  pur-uin^  the  sombre  calculation. 

"And  l!c>^ie — uhere's  Hes^ie  now?"  his  cmmi- 
panion  urj^cd  ;  "  is  ;,he  at  the  old  farmhouse  yet  ?  " 

"  Aye,  that's  where  >he  is.  The  hoo>ekeeper"s 
wi"  her — the  same  kind  o'  body  they  hae  at  yir 
faither's  hoose.  Mr.  Shearer  says  slie's  bem'  wun- 
ncrfu'  upbiirne  by  the  consolations  a'  the  Gos- 
pel." 

"  Those  will  never  fail,"  said  Stephen,  nunister- 
elect  of  the  Covenant  Church. 

"  And  she  has  ither  consolations,  forbye — she  disna 
mourn  like  them  as  has  no  hope — nor  naethin'  else 
but  hope.  She  i;ct-  the  whole  o't."  And  the  pjood 
man's  face  shows  how  unbounded  is  his  confidence 
in  both  these  kinds  of  comfort;  "she  gets  tile  farm 
— twa  hunnert  acres,  maistly  cleared;  an'  a  guid 
pickle  o'  money  forbye.  Bessie's  got  naethin'  to 
grieve  aboot— e.xceptin'  her  faither  an'  mither,  of 
course,"  he  added,  bent  on  accuracy. 

A  long  silence  ensued.  "  They'll  be  glad  to  see 
ye  hame  again,"  his  friend  renewed.  "  We  a'  kenned 
when  ye  was  comin'— that's  why  I  was  on  the  watch 
for  ye  when  I  got  on.  A'  the  neebours  kens— they 
ken  the  vera  train.  We're  hopin'  yell  be  preachin' 
for  us  i'  the  kirk.  Mr.  Shearer'll  be  askin'  >e,  nae 
doot." 

"  How  is  Mr.  Shearer?  "  Stephen  enquired  quickly, 
for  the  last  suggestion  was  lost  on  him.  He  was 
thinking  of  something  else— of  a  fair  and  loveiy  face 


246 


THE    I    WDERTOIV 


cl. 


that  seemed  to  jjass 
comeliness  of  grief. 

"  Mr.    Sliearer- 
He  ^  been  giein' 
an'  the  kirk's  mr.' 
The  folk  soon  ken 
aye  be  a  well  worn  ^. 
there's  mony  a  h'  n. 
when  3-e  come  thir  - 

"  That's  true,"  rcj  1  cd  ;■>•     . 
same  old  service  you  .ilway   ' 

"  Aye,  jui-t  the  ^,  m ivli.it  1  r 

doesna   change— not   if    it's    Go. 


him  now  in  the  new-born 


'Vli  ■..•'■. 


fine.      He  wears   graun. 
fospel  \vi'  new  puuer 

•  as   it   was   years  syne, 
lore's  a  spring—there  11 

•  sprirg,  StepliL;n.     jkit 
'  ^^  ,   a>  a  whustle 

ye  ken." 
:  "  do  you  have  the 
'  he  pursued, 
no'?     A  spring 
onyway.       Mr. 


bhearers  nane  o  ,  ir  changin'  kind.  What  div  ye 
think  some  o'  the  new  fangled  folk  was  wantin'  > 
Ihc  session  settled  them  fine." 

•  I  really  couldn't  imagine,"  said  Stephen     "  what 
was  It,  Mr.  ReynoKKon  ?  " 

"  They  was  for  puttin'  oot  the  auld  hoods— ui'  the 
lang  stick  at  the  end,  that  w.    tak  up  the  collection 
w>.      \ell    mind   them    fine.     They    was     wantin' 
plates,  siller  plates,  puir  bodies.     Siller  plates  '    C!  it- 
tenn'  wi'  noise-like  hens  pickin'  aff  a  barn  floor 
An    after  we've  had   the  ithe.    for  fifty  year,   m.nd 
ye.     An   wr  the  plates,  onybody  can  see  what  ye'rc 
giein.      Twad    be    takin'    their    thochts    awa'    frae 
the  sermon.     Xaebody  can  tell  what  ye  gie.  wi'  the 
hoods.      Yir   left   hand  doesna  ken  what  vir  richt 
hands  daem-an'   that  suits  the    Scotch    f^lk  fine 
t^nyway,  the  session  settled  them." 

They  were  now  upon  ground  well  knn-.vn  to  them 


OLD  SCEXES  ami  OLD  STRUGGLES    247 

botli,  recognizing  every  farmhouse  as  tljcy  p.is.cd. 
Stephen  s  communicative  frienu  \va-  engaged  with 
a  new-noticed  acquamtancc  across  the  aisie,  giving 
forth  his  soul  ireely  a-s  bef.jre. 

Of  uliicli  Stephen  was  sincerely  glad  ;  for  with  the 
old  familiar  scenes  ti.ere  came  echue-.  of  the  old  fa- 
miliar struggle  m  hi^  heart.  Rising,  he  takes  his 
place  by  a  window  on  the  other  side  of  the  car— the 
side  on  which  he  had  sat  when  la^t  he  looked  upon 
these  spreading  acres.  (Was  it  not  poor  I'liable.  ac- 
cording to  Hunyan  s  master  pen,  who  clambered  out 
of    the   slough   "  on    the  side    nearest    to    ln^    own 


ho 


^e 


?) 


A  strange  unrest  he  felt,  touched  with  something 
that  he  thought  wa.-,  past  forever.  Great  joy,  great 
love,  grea-  purpose— all  these  he  thought  had  joined 
to  strike  it  deau.  And  a  sort  of  stern  anguish  came 
over  him  as  he  felt  the  old  struggle  begin  anew. 

His  face  is  pressed  close  against  the  window,  while 
the  plunging  train  bounds  on  as  if  conscious  of  the 
Hearing  goal.  The  far-spreading  arms  of  a  fence 
that  had  been  built  of  stumps,  the  first  production  of 
the  soil,  breaks  upon  him.  Giant  roots,  that  strong 
a?  as  h.:  i  torn  from  their  hiding  place,  tangled  in  fan- 
tastic fashion,  spread  hither  ami  thither  in  pictur- 
esque abundance.  Nothing  like  this  has  he  seen 
since  he  went  this  way  before.  Then  his  soul  catches 
the  fragrance  of  the  thorn-  ''or  he  remember^— he 
remembers — how  he  had  mechan:ca!ly  noted  this 
same  rude  f'  .ce  while  his  heart  was  still  riotous  with 
the  vanishr.i  pict^sre.     The  blossoming  thorn  and  the 


248 


THE    UNDERTOW 


lifeless  roots  had  lingered  in  his  mind  together.    And 
his  c)cs  leap  onward  with  the  leaping  train. 

It  is  but  a  moment.  Its  foliage  swims  into  his 
view,  gilded  with  the  dying  sun  ;  and  a  sensation  of 
dizziness  seize.-,  him  as  he  beholds — for  he  had  not 
hoped  for  it— he  would  have  prayed  against  it- 
beholds  a  maiden's  form  again  beneath  the  tree.  And 
the  tall  figure  is  robed  in  black ;  but  he  would  know 
it  anywhere— for  the  flowing  tre.sses  have  no  thought 
of  mourning,  while  the  white  hand  that  seeks  to  re- 
strain their  merriment,  and  the  other  that  gently 
waves  a  snow-white  signal  toward  the  train,  tell  the 
trembling  Stephen  that  ^here  are  certain  things 
against  which  death  and  grief  are  powerless. 

Whereupon  he  clutches  at  the  memory  of  Hattie. 
And  his  love  for  his  wife  springs  like  a  fountain  in 
his  heart— but  the  enemy's  face,  lie  marvels,  does  not 
disappear.  "  I  was  here  first,"  it  seemed  to  mutter  sul- 
lenly ;  and  it  called  to  its  aid  a  score  of  loyal  henchmen, 
some  bearing  the  livery  of  Memory,  and  some  the  in- 
signia of  Imagination — till  Stephen's  chaster  thought 
lay  among  them  all  like  that  sacred  tomb  among  the 
Saracens  of  old. 

"  Oh,  God,  let  my  deliver.uice  draw  nigh."  he  cries 
within  him.  Then  he  looks  swiftly  back— and  catches 
but  one  swift  glimpse  of  fluttering  black— then  prays 
again.  "  I  must  be  quick  about  getting  to  my  life- 
work."  he  murmurs  to  himself;  "and  then  I'll  have 
peace  at  last." 


Reuben's  beaming  face  is  the  first  he  sees  when  he 


OLD  SCENES  and  OLD  STRUGGLES    249 

alights  at  the  station.  The  towering  form  seems 
taller  and  straighter  than  ever.  And  the  honest  eyes 
that  look  out  at  him  are  filled  with  an  honest  joy  that 
had  never  been  there  before. 

The  hearty  greeting  is  soon  over  and  the  brothers 
driving  hi)meuard.  "  Isn't  this  a  new  carriage, 
Reuben  ?  " 

"  Ves,  just  bought  it  yesterday — we've  struck  oil, 
Steve,"  and  Reuben's  face  was  jubilant. 

"  Have  you  really  ?  You  thought  I  didn't  know — 
bl:^  Mr.  Reynoldson  was  on  the  train  and  lie  told  me 
about  it ;  only  he  didn't  know  if  you  had  actually  got 
it.  Tell  me  about  it.  Rube."  And  Stephen  nestled 
back  in  the  luxurious  frst-fruits. 

Nothing  loath,  Reub^rn  entered  on  the  wondrous 
story,  pointing  to  the  numerous  tr  .ods  that  could  be 
seen  in  the  distance. 

"  And  we've  been  oflTered  si?dy  thousand,  Stev  — 
sixty  thousand  dollars — so  that  ought  to  mean  a  hun- 
dred, when  they  offered  sixty.  And  when  these  tires 
get  worn  out  we  can  get  more,"  viewing  the  costly 
upholstery  with  smiling  satisfaction. 

Their  talk  flowed  on.  "  Everything's  happy, 
Steve,"  said  Reuben.  "  I  don't  know  anything  in  my 
life  I  want  that  I  haven't  got.  Except  mother — and 
Ave've  still  got  her  ;  she's  more  with  me,  anyhow,  than 
she  ever  was — and  more  to  me,  too — and  I  know 
she's  haopy.  And  I'm  just  waiting  for  one  thing, 
Steve — you  know  what  that  is,"  he  added,  a  slight 
colour  showing  through  the  tan.  "  Of  course  we 
have  to  wait  a  while  now.     I  don't  see  why — I  don't 


aso 


THE    UNDERTOIV 


want  to — but  Bessie  insists  on  it.  What  do  you 
think  yourself,  Steve?  Do  you  think  that's  any  rea- 
son—I  mean  about  Hessie's  father  and  niotiier — why 
we  shoulchi't  f;et  married?" 

"  I  don't  know — liow  could  I  know  ?"  Steplicn  an- 
swered. Then,  alter  a  lonj;  silence:  "Hut  since 
you've  asked  mc,  I  think  you  ou^lit  not  to  wait- 
decidedly." 

"  I  don't  see  why  we  should,  cither.  Vou  talk  to 
Bessie— Bessie's  cominij  over  to-ni^dit.  'riiere'll  just 
be  ourselves,  all  together—see,  there's  father  at  the 
gate." 

Suddenly  the  gate  is  thrown  wide,  and  the  old 
man  strides  forth— more  bent,  more  sncnvy,  than 
before,     liut  the  spring  of  youth  i    in  his  step. 

I  lis  arms  are  about  his  son.  "Welcome  hame, 
my  laddie,"  he  cries,  "  welcome  back  to  yir  faither's 
hoosc.  Ve're  lookin'  brawly.  Ve're  mair  an'  mair 
like  yir  mither,  my  laddie.  Come  ben  the  hoose; 
come  ben— it's  no  been  like  itsel'  sin  ye  went  awa'. 
Ye'vc  been  in  mony  a  graun  hoose,  nae  doot— but 
there's  lae  place  like  hame." 

Something  like  peace  stole  about  his  embattled 
heart  as  the  returning  wanderer  saw  again  the  severe 
and  simple  surroundings  of  the  humble  house.  He 
threw  himself  upon  the  couch,  looking  about  the 
room,  unchanged  since  he  had  left. 

"  Aye,  she's  tickin'  awa',"  his  father  said  as 
Stephen's  gaze  fell  upon  the  clock ;  "  she's  a  trusty 
yin.  I  haena  heard  her  ring  sae  blithesome  sin  that 
nicht  she  stoppit,"  and  a  shade  of  sadness  fell  on  the 


I* 

11,  ,■ 

h  ' 
It 


y 


mm 


OLD  SCENES  and  OLD  STRUGGI.ES    2W 


stron^j  features  as  he  j^lanced  (juickly  toward  the  htllc 
room.  "  Aw'  lika  time  slie  cliimes  tlie  lioiir,  I  say 
*  I'm  V.  -mm'  ;  aye,  I'm  comin',  mitlier  ' — an'  I  (hiiiia 
doot  slie  Ikmi-..  An  auld  man  hke  me  lia-.  nae  trieiid 
like  the  c1<h  k.  " 

"  Don't  talk  that  way  fatlier,"  pleaded  Steplien  ; 
"  1  hope  you'll  have  lon^  years  witli  us  yet.  " 

"  It's  a'  riciit,  Stephen.  I'm  no'  comiilainin'.  I 
hae  treasure  baith  iiere  an'  yonner — but  mai-itly 
yonner.  An'  yir  ain  liame-comin'  tiie  nicht  maks 
me  think  o'  the  meelin'  i'  the  better  land— it'll  be  lair 
rapture,  my  ladilie." 

Tlicn  .Stephen  introduced  the  subject  «jf  the  rich 
fortune  their  land  had  s(j  suddenly  dir^closcd  ;  but  he 
found  his  father's  pleasure  chastened  and  subdued. 

"  It  cam  ower  l.ite,"  the  old  man  -I'id  ■  "  it's  ower 
late.  She  should  hae  had  a  holiday.  An'  to  think 
the  ile  was  ihere  a'  the  time.  But  she's  restin'  noo," 
he  concluded,  deep  peace  upon  his  face. 

This  was  followed  by  a  lontj  stillness,  broken  at 
last  by  his  father's  voice  : 

"  Let's  rran^  oot— there's  somebod)-  at  the  ^ate. 
It'll  be  Hessie  ;  she  was  comin'  ower.  " 

Bessie  and  Reuben  were  approaching;;  and  tiie 
fjirl's  fjreetin^  was  full  of  shy  embarrassment  as  Amj 
laid  her  hand  in  his. 

His  earnest  word:^  of  consolation  were  fa>t  follmved 
by  falterinfj  words  of  confjratulation  -but  they  were 
interru[)ted.  "  Which  train  did  you  c(jme  in  on  ?  " 
she  asked.  He  {jave  some  stammering'  answer,  won- 
dering the  while  ;  but  Reuben  cried  : 


252 


THE   UNDERTOIV 


"  Why,  Bessie,  what  a  strange  question— I  told  you 
only  tliis  morning  the  train  Steve  was  coming  on. 
Besides,  there  isn't  any  other." 

Little  of  speech  passed  between  thorn  as  they  sat 
together.  :5ut  Stephen  was  inwardly  aware  that  the 
girl's  eyes  were  never  withdrawn  from  his  face.  The 
lamp  is  lighted  presently—for  the  darkness  ha?  crept 
about  them—and  Stephen  starts  as  their  eyes  meet 
at  last. 

For  Bessie  looks  older— so  much  older— and  the 
sweetness  of  her  bloom  seems  to  be  touched  with 
somethmg  that  was  n.-  there  before,  as  though  she 
had  struggled  and  not  prevailed. 

And  as  he  looks  once  and  again,  and  swiftly,  into 
her  eyes,  he  feels  how  different  is  the  message  from 
that  which  other,  purer  depths  had  given  back.  Hut 
yet— and  herein  was  the  bitterness  of  it,— each,  com- 
ing, found  something  in  him,  and  both  in  turn  had 
fleeting  place  as  the  ruling  motive  of  his  soul. 

"  Where  is  Hiram  now  ?  "  he  asked  his  father  ab- 
ruptly, glad  of  the  digression.  "  Reuben  told  me 
about  his  coming  into  money." 

"  Hiram  !  Ye  may  vveel  ask,"  his  father  answered 
smihng ;  "  he's  far  above  the  likes  o'  us.  Aboot  this 
time,  Hiram'll  be  puttin'  on  yin  o'  thae  coats  wi- 
the turkey-gobbler  tails— like  the  singers  i'  the  city 
kirks.  Or  mebbe  he'll  be  tellin'  the  butler  to  open 
anither  crock  o'  champagne.  Or  it's  mair  nor  likely 
he'll  be  tellin"  his  gairdner  to  fling  a  palm  ower  the 
fence  an'  get  a  new  yin.  Or  he'll  mebbe  be  bid- 
dm'  his  footman  shove  his  gairter  unner  his  trowser 


OLD  SCENES  and  OLD  STRUGGLES    as? 

knees.  But  I'll  tell  ye  what  he's  likeliest  to  be 
daein'." 

"  What  will  it  be,  father  ?  "  Stephen  asked  laugh- 
ing. 

"  He'll  be  pickin'  oot  two  or  th'ee  bonny  bit  sins 
to  confess  till  the  priest.  He's  a  Catholic  noo,  ye 
ken — Hiram  gained  the  whole  world  an'  lost  his  ain 
soul — 'twas  a  sair  trade  for  Hiram,"  and  the  old  man 
shook  his  head  mournfully. 

"  Well,"  Reuben  said  suddenly,  "  I  don't  know  what 
Hiram's  doing  now — but  I  know  what  I'll  have  to  be 
doing,  1  sorry  to  say.  I  promised  to  nicx-l  a  man 
from  Cleveland  at  the  village  to-night— ami  I'm 
afraid  I'll  have  to  be  going.  Hope  you'll  excuse  me 
for  a  little,  Stephen." 

"  By  all  means,  Rube — certainly.  I'm  glad  busi- 
ness is  so  pressing.  I  suppose  it's  a'Dout  the  oil, " 
Stephen  assented  eagerly. 

"  Ves,  it's  about  selling  him  a  well.  I  won't  be 
long,  Bessie — not  long  at  all;  I'll  be  back  in  lots  of 
time  to  walk  home  with  you.  You  just  chat  away 
till  I  get  back. " 

Reuben  is  gone.  Deep  silence  fells.  Stephen's 
eyes  rest  on  her  who  had  been  almost  forgotten  till 
this  very  day ;  his  thought  is  still  beyond  the  sea. 

Yet,  as  in  many  another  dwelling-place,  the  secret 
guest  chamber  of  the  soul  may  harbour  to-night  the 
prophet  of  the  living  God ;  and  the  succeeding  night 
some  leprous  face  of  sin  will  rest  upon  the  selfsame 
pillow.  Thus  came  and  went,  in  silent  alternation, 
the  shadowy  guests  that  had  so  often  found  their  rest 


254 


•THE    UNDERTOIV 


I 


in  Stephen's  unhappy  and  impartial  heart.  He 
thought  of  the  face  so  far  away,  rosy  now  with  the 
kiss  of  slumber,  smiling  mayhap  with  the  dream  of 
a  loyal  heart  beyond  the  wave.  Then  he  thought  of 
the  face  that  was  so  near,  its  fevered  light  still  leap- 
ing out  to  his ;  and  Stephen's  heart  was  now  an  am- 
brosial arbour,  now  a  jungle  lair,  each  tenant  trans- 
forming it  to  its  taste. 

A  quick  resolve  seizes  him,  ally  to  the  absent  one ; 
and  he  turns  toward  his  father,  introducing  some 
topic  of  neutral  interest.  The  conversation  glides 
pleasantly  along,  the  girl  having  no  share  in  it ;  but 
the  old  man  feels  that  something,  he  knows  not 
what,  but  in  which  he  had  no  part,  has  passed  away  ; 
and  he  gives  himself  up  to  the  exercise  he  loves  so 
well. 

Not  more  than  a  few  minutes  have  been  so 
employed  when  Bessie  rises,  beginning  to  adjust  her 
cloak. 

"  What's  the  maitter,  Bessie  ?     Ye're  no'  gaein'  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  the  girl  answered  in  a  husky  voice ;  "  I 
must  attend  to  one  or  two  things  at  home — and  I'll 
have  to  go — I  can  find  my  way  alone,"  she  added, 
her  eyes  making  their  way  again  to  Stephen's  face. 

The  father  remonstrated  :  "  Reuben  '11  be  disap- 
pointed—he'll no'  be  lang,  Bessie  "—but  in  vain  ;  a 
quick  word  of  farewell,  and  liessiewas  gone,  the  door 
left  open  behind  her  as  the  dark  robed  figure  vanished 
in  the  night. 

A  moment— and  Stephen's  heart  has  resolved 
again.     He  knew  the  motive  that  prompted  her  im- 


iiiii^ 


OLD  SCENES  and  OLD  STRUGGLES    js5 

pulsive  action — and  he  had  resolved  to  remain  with 
his  father.  But  the  vision  of  the  dark  way  gleamed 
before  him ;  he  persuades  himseh  that  the  road  is  too 
lonely  for  her  to  ^'o  unattended — he  wouldn't  have 
had  Hattie  go  this  way  alone. 

No,  it  is  not  ri^ht  that  she  should  go  alone — this  is 
Stephen's  final  warrant,  holding  fast  to  which  he 
flings  a  word  of  hasty  explanation  to  his  father  and 
hurries  out  exultant  into  the  dark. 

He  will  have  to  make  haste,  he  fancies,  if  he  would 
overtake  her— for  her  step  is  fleet.  But  pressing  on, 
he  has  not  got  farther  than  the  stile  that  leads  from 
the  field  to  the  familiar  wood  when  he  sees  the  move- 
ment of  a  dress,  not  easily  to  be  distinguished  from 
the  surrounling  gloom. 

He  is  beside  her  in  a  moment. 

"  I  knew  you'd  come,  Steve — I  was  waiting  for 
you,"  she  said  gently  as  she  rose  from  the  step  on 
which  she  had  been  sitting  ;  '  help  me  down,  Steve — 
it's  dark." 

Dark  indeed  it  was  as  Stephen  sprung  to  the  other 
side  of  the  fence,  turning  to  see  the  hand  outstretched 
to  him. 

He  took  her  hand  in  his,  soft  and  trustful  a-  it 
rested  there,  the  girl  standing  on  the  second  step 
nearest  to  himself. 

"  Help  me  down,  Stephen."  she  murmured,"  it'.-,  so 
dark  ;  "  whereat  he  reached  forth  his  arms,  his  hands 
supporting  her  elbows,  hers  groping  their  way  to  his 
shoulders. 

The  old  thirst  came  back,  as  the  traveller's  thirst  is 


256 


THE    UNDERTOIV 


m 


started  by  the  deadly  winds  of  the  desert.  But  his 
promise  to  another— and  to  God— called  loudly  to  him 
to  endure. 

He  helped  her  gently  to  the  ground,  as  gently 
withdrawing  his  hands  and  turning  from  the  wood. 

"  Let  us  go  round,"  he  said ;  "  it's  too  dark  to  co 
through."  ^ 

"  You've  forgotten  the  path."  she  faltered ;  "  I 
know  it  yet."  Nevertheless  she  turned  with  him.  and 
they  made  their  way  along  the  edge  of  the  bush, 
silent  as  they  went.  Once  he  took  her  hand,  to  help 
her  over  a  murmuring  stream  that  coaxed  the  cling- 
ing grassc^s  to  let  it  go  its  way— but  he  released  it  Tn 
a  moment. 

Involuntarily  he  quickens  his  pace,  though  he 
knows  not  why  ;  a  broken  prayer  for  strength  mmgles 
with  a  blurred  vision  of  the  memory  he  prays  may 
be  forgiven— but  tue  vision  outlives  tlic  prayer. 

He  hurries  on— they  will  soon  be  past.  And  he 
who  has  no  wax  to  dullen  inward  ears  to  the  siren's 
voice  must  outrun  death  himself. 

"  Stephen,  don't  hurry  so— I'm  tired." 
"  What,  Ikssie  ?  " 

"  Don't  go  so  fast.  Stephen.  I'm  tired— I  want  to 
rest — let  us  sit  down  a  minute. 

"  Here— let  us  sit  down  here ;  "  and  chey  took  their 
pla.-s  on  the  little  pile  of  wood,  still  undisturbed  since 
last  they  had  rested  there.  And  the  wild  free  breath 
of  the  forest  bade  them  welcome  as  before. 

Suddenly  she  ::■  .ved,  Stephen  trembling  as  he  felt 
her  coming  nearer.     -  Oh,  Steve,"  she  murmured. 


n 


OLD  SCENES  and  OLD  STRUGGLES    2^7 

"  I've  been  here  often  since — often  in  the  darkness. 
I'm  all  alone  " — and  she  pressed  nearer,  foUowinf,'  the 
direction  of  the  heart  whose  tumult  could  be  felt. 
"  Oh,  Steve " 

The  vision  of  Hattie — and  the  hoUness  of  anotlier 
hour — swam  far  away,  retreating  and  indistinct,  cry- 
ing out  that  it  had  never  been. 

He  hears  the  roar  of  the  soul-destroying  cataract 
toward  which  these  silent  waters  are  swiftly  bearing 
him  ;  and  his  heart,  seized  by  a  mighty  impulse,  turns 
desperately  tc  ird  the  shore.  It  may  have  been  the 
withered  prayers  with  which  his  life's  path\\a>'  had 
been  strewn  ;  or  it  may  have  been  the  ministry  of 
mouldering  lips  that  lay  silent  on  the  adjoining  hill ; 
or  it  may  ha\  e  been  the  sheer  pity  of  his  father's  God 
— but  he  gaineti  the  shore,  the  sullen  voice  of  the  tor- 
rent dj'ing  in  the  distance. 

"  Go,  go,  liessie, "  he  whispered  hoarsely ;  "  and 
God  pity  and  help  us  both — go — I'm  going  home," 
and  he  turned  in  the  direction  farthest  from  the  tor- 
rent's roar,  nor  looked  ever  back.  Onward,  he 
pressed — swiftly  homeward — a  great  belief  in  God 
surging  in  his  soul. 


XX 


HlR/iM  S   PRIEST 

WHAT  the  outcome  of  his  silence  on  the 
subject  of  his  secret  marriage  might  yet 
prove  to  be.  Stephen  Wi.hart  could  not 
well  surmise. 

It  was  the  mornmg  after  his  ordination  to  the  care 
ol  the  Church  of  the  Covenant,  and  the  varied  scenes 
of  the  great  occasion  were  flitting  before  his  mind  as 
he  sat  m  the  comfortably  furm.hed  room,  one  of  a 
suite  that  were  now  to  be  his  home. 

One  scene  there  was  to  which  his  mind  reverted 
more  often,  and  more  gloomily,  than  to  any  other 
It  had  had  its  place  at  the  social  gathermg  of  the  con- 
gregation, convened   to  bid  him  welcome,  after  the 
solemn  ceremony  that  preceded  it  had  found  its  close. 

There  were,  of  course,  varied  speeches  by  varied 
speakers.  And  the  inevitably  facetious  man  had 
been  in  evidence,  a  brother  minister  from  an  outlvinp 
town.  '    *' 

"  And  now,"  this  facetious  one  had  said,  "  I  want 
to  ask  you  all,  my  friemls.  to  be  in  your  pews  here 
every  Sabb.ith  day.  I  know  of  n.ithing  so  discour- 
aging as  to  look  down  from  the  pulpit  into  a  lot  of 
vacant  faccs-that  is,  I  mean,"  he  amended.  "  as  to 
look  down  and  see  a  lot  of  absent  faces  that  are  not 
there." 


HIRj4MS  pr/est 


a^ 


3 


This  poor  repair  produced  a  frcbh  stream  of  mirth, 

and  tlic  t;uod  man,  ch'jcrcd  therewith,  went  clicer.ly 


on  his  way 


And  there's  anotlier  thin<:  I  want  to 


say.     Hy  and  by  your  niirn^ter  will  find  it  isn't  ^ood 
for 


U)  h 


id  he'll  be  looki 


ind  ft. 


man 
a  nelpmcet,  niakiiv^  a  choice  amon^  tliese  bcautilul 
faces  that  I  ~cc  in  the  choir  and  in  the  con}:jrc^ation 
before  me.  Ami  when  he  makes  his  choice,  and 
you're  Roinfj  to  have  a  minister'>  wife.     .     . 

Thus  ran  his  speech,  and  Stephen  .sat  through 
it  all — and  after — and  in  silence,  hib  burning  face  in- 
terpreted by  his  people  as  a  pledge  of  youthful 
modesty. 

Ah  me !  the  peril  of  the  unspoken  word.  For 
speech  itself  is  easier  of  recall,  and  poor  awkward 
hands  may  repair  it  not  so  ill.  But  silence  ebbs  with 
an  eternal  speed,  and  no  human  tongue  is  licet 
enough  to  overtake  the  fugitive. 

To  the  dear  ones  of  his  father's  house,  Stephen 
had  never  written  the  tidings  of  his  marriage — he  had 
purposed  the  rather  to  tell  them  when  he  sa.v  them 
face  to  face.  Face  to  face  at  length,  he  resolved  to 
wait  till  Bessie  should  be  absent.  Bessie  in  due  time 
gone,  he  had  awaited  a  more  convenient  season,  till 
the  very  barrier  existed  that  now  confronted  him  in 
relation  to  his  church. 

For  he  had  been  silent  after  the  facctiors  man  had 
made  an  end,  resolving  swiftly  that  not  t  ■  this  public 
crowd,  but  to  the  officers  of  his  church,  would  he 
make  the  first  avowal.  But  this  i>  the  grim  thought 
that  reflection  brings  him  :  how  will  he  explain  to 


^^:^^. 


260 


THE   UNDERTOIV 


those  same  officers  the  silence  that  his  later  avowal 
is  to  break,  the  silence  that  should  have  never  btcn 
necessary  Irom  the  first  ? 

He  can  see  no  alternative  but— more  silence  •  for 
a  time,  at  least.  ' 

His  perplexed  and  perplcxinrj  thought  was  sud- 
denly interrupted  by  the  intimation  of  a  visitor  a-id 
the  name  was  about  as  httle  welcome  as  any  Stci'jhen 
could  have  heard. 

1-or  his  caller  was  none  other  than  Mr.  Hiram 
Barker  ;  wliom  Stephen  met  at  the  door,  greeting 
him  u  ith  all  the  cordiality  and  unconcern  he  could 
command. 

"  Wliy.  Hiram,  is  this  you— and  looking  so  well. 
Its  a  long  time  since  I  had  a  sight  of  you,  isn't  it  ? 
Although  I  had  an  idea  I  caught  a  glimpse  of  you 
last  night." 

"  Oh.  yes,  I  was  there  last  night.  Mr.  Wishart— 
never  do  to  call  you  Steve,  now  that  you're  the  min- 
ister of  the  Covenant  Church.  I  was  there,  all  right ; 
wouldn't  have  missed  it  for  anything.  Of  course  I 
suppose  you  know  I've  changed  my  religion.  I've 
flitted,  so  to  speak—wasn't  much  of  a  contract— did 
It  all  with  a  wheelbarrow,"  and  Hiram  Barker's  hand- 
some face  was  wreathed  in  gracious  smiles.  •<  But 
I'm  not  above  going  to  a  Protestant  meeting— I'm  no 
bigot,  you  know.  I'm  like  you  in  tiiis,  Mr.  Wishart. 
that  I  don't  believe  in  taking  religion  too  seriously.' 
Good  serv'ant,  but  a  poor  master,  eh  ?  '" 

Stephen  winced  under  the  man's  suggestive  words. 
"  I  m  glad  you  were  there,  Hirn.m-it  was  gooJ  of 


HIRAMS    PRIEST 


361 


you  to  come.  Vcs,  I  did  hear  yuu  had  joined  the 
Catholic  Church  ;  but  if  a  man  s  Mticcre — if  a  man's 
sincere,  I  .^ay — it  doesn't  matter  much  to  what  churcli 
he  belong-.  I  hope  you  enjoyed  the  .er\.ce  Lust 
night." 

'«  (^h,  itnmensely, '  Hiram  answered  bhth  ,.  •  "  I 
never  saw  a  nan  set  apart  to  tlie  service  ot  God  be- 
fore— it  was  wonJeri'ally  sulenin  " — lie  contuiMed  in 
j^raver  tone;  "but  that  wa.-,  a  knockout  it.;'-^ti)n 
they  put  to  >  ou,  wasn't  it  ?  " 

"Which  one  ?"  Stephen  asked;  ••  t;-.' re  v  ere  so 
many." 

"  That  there  were  ;  most  of  them  were  .<  1  i  I  ke 
an  examination  for  insurance.  Hut  there  v.  ^  oue 
rum  one — about  a  fellow's  motive  in  enteruii,'  tin: 
ministry — '  love  of  souls,  and  zeal  for  the  glory  of 
God  ' — something  like  chat,  they  asked,  wasn't  it  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  Stephen  responded,  "  it  certainly  is  a  very 
searching  question  and " 

"  But  it  did  me  good  to  hear  you  answer  it.  You 
see,  I  wasn't  sure  before ;  it  was  lovely  to  have  it 
from  your  own  lips — especially  when  you  were  being 
settled  over  such  a  gilt-edged  congregation.  It's  the 
silk-hattest  and  kid-glovest  congregation  in  the  city 
— and  you'll  see  more  of  them  in  the  boxes  at  the 
horse  show  than  all  the  other  churches  put  together. 
The  salary  they  pay  would  make  most  men  have  any 
quantity  of  zeal  for  the  p'ory  of  God,"  he  concluded, 
the  bland  smile  upon  his  face  again. 

"  What's  your  minister's  name  ?  "  Stephen  asked 
abruptly — •■  your  priest's,  I  should  say  ?  " 


I 


TT5^5TT3T1H 


a62 


THE    UNDERTOIV 


"  Oh,  I  fTo  to  Saint  Anne's— ORourkc's  his  name, 
Father  O'Rourkc— and  he's  a  jeucl.  a  iierlect  jewel 

— lots  of  K)ve  for  souls  and  zeal  for  glory lots  oi  it. 

He's  a  damned  good  Christian— excuse  me,  that's 
mixing  term.— but  he's  good  as  gold  ;  and  the  best 
preacher  in  Hamilton,  bar  none." 

"  I'd  like  to  hear  him,"  Stephen  said,  moving  in 
his  seat. 

"  Vou  just  ought  to  hear  him— he  often  preaches 
Friday  nights  and  you  could  go  tlvn.  He'd  be  the 
very  man  for  you  ;  he's  great  on  ihe  past—  ilua)s 
dusting  up  the  past ;  that's  his  specialt\-and  you 
ought  to  have  a  treatment.'  Hiram's  eyes  were 
giving  forth  a  glint  that  tortured  Stei)hcn. 

"  Look  here,  Hiram,"  lie  began  in  a  shaking  voice, 
"  what's  the  use  of  this  ?  Is  that  what  >ou  came  to 
see  me  about?  Isn't  it  about  time  wc  gave  this 
ov«T  ?     I've  nothing  against  you,  Hiram." 

The  latter  looked  at  him  for  a  moment,  and  it  was 
difTicult  to  say  whether  more  of  cruelty  or  of  pity 
was  in  the  glance.  But  the  keenest  eye  could  not 
have  read  his  heart  as  he  suddenly  laid  his  hand  on 
Stephen's  shoulder,  his  voice  so  chan;;ed  from  a  mo- 
ment before. 

"All  right,  Steve.  I  won't  plague  you— I  won't. 
You've  got  enough  ;  and  I  wouldn't  add  a  straw,  after 
I  heard  those  vows  of  jours  last  night— not  a  straw  ; 
you've  got  enough.  Id  rather  help  you  pla\-  the 
game— blind  mans  buff,  isn't  it,  eh  ?  If  I  can  help 
you  keep  them  from  pulling  the  thing  off,  I'll  do  it. 
What's  more,  I'll  tell  you   what   brought    me    here 


wm 


HIRAMS   PRIEST 


2(53 


to-day.  I  came  to  do  you  a  good  turn-  -I  did, 
honcbt.  " 

Slcplu-n's  lace  turned  toward  the  man  beside  him. 

"  Thank  yt'u,  lliram,  I  knew  your  heart  was  ri;^ht. 
I  knew  you  wished  nie  well — what  \va.s  it  you  were 
goin;4  to  do  lor  me  ?  I  know  you  can  be  a  ^reat 
help  to  me." 

lliram  :^miled.  "  Well,  I'll  tell  you,"  he  beijan, 
"  it's  a  ^oo(.!  thinf;  to  have  cwo  .itrin^-.  to  your  bow. 
Isn't  there  something  like  that  in  the  Scriptures, 
something  about  mammon  and  everlasting  habita- 
tions ?  Our  church  isn't  much  on  the  Hible,  you 
know.  Well,  I'm  s[)eaking  plam.  You've  got  a 
cursed  ricii  congregation  here  ;  and  if  you're  going 
to  keep  pa:e  with  them,  you've  got  to  have  the 
wherewithal.  Anyhow,  you  miglit  find  it  hamly 
some  day — you  can  never  tell  what  might  happen. 
Do  you  see  ?  " 

"  Well,  not  exactly,"  Stephen  said  slowly  ;  "  ilo  you 
mean  money  ? " 

"  I'recisely,  Mr.  Wishart — the  vcr>'  thing.  I 
wouldn't  have  thought,  after  last  night,  you  would 
have  thought  t)f  it  so  (juick.  Hut  you're  quite  riglit 
— you  can't  cash  those  love  and  glory  things  at  the 
bank,  can  you  ?  Well,  I  can  put  y<ni  ne.vt,  as  tiie 
saying  is.  I  knt)w  some  stocks  that  are  going  up 
twenty  to  forty  points  insiile  a  month  ;  and  yoa  might 
just  as  well  have  a  slice  of  a  good  thing  when  it's 
going.  It  doesn't  take  much  to  buy  on  margin. 
See  ntnv,  Steve  ?  ' 

"  I  think  I  do,"  Stephen  answered  quickly,  "  and  I 


0 


264 


7HE   UNDERTOIV 


w^  ri 


certainly  appreciate  your  kindness.  But  I  wonder  if 
It's  ri-lit— becoming  a  minister,  you  know.  Wouldn't 
the  people  be  likely  to  hear  about  it  ?  And  anyhow. 
I  haven't  got  the  money— you  know  what  I  got  from' 
father;  and  of  course  it's  all  gone." 

"  Don't  bother  ab.^ut  that-1'11  lend  you  the  money 
\on  kno-  the  Hible  says  you're  not  to  take  to  the 
woods  When  a  fellow  wants  a  loan  ,  the  modern  ver- 
sion IS  lor  the  fellow  that  borrowed  it  to  turn  away 
when  you  want  it  back.  But  I'll  trust  you,  Steve- 
you  can  have  an)-  quantity,  after  those  vows  last 
night;  love  and  zeal  ought  to  make  good  collateral 
I  should  say.  And  you  may  as  well  make  a  little; 
you'U  be  getting  married  some  of  these  days  and  then 
you'll  need  it." 

Stephen  felt  the  hot  blood  bathing  his  face,  for  the 
unhappy  secret  was  already  beginning  to  fester  in  his 
heart. 

"All  right,  Hiram;  thank  you  more  than  I  can 
tell  you.  I'll  think  about  it— and  I  think  I'll  proba- 
bly accept  your  offer.  A  fellow  can  do  a  lot  of  good 
with  money.     I'll  let  you  know  to-morrow." 

"  Very  good,  I'll  drop  round  and  see  you  to-mor- 
row evening.  I'm  glad  we  understand  each  other 
better— the  past  isn't  easily  forgotten,  is  it  ?  "  the  old 
expression  on  his  countenance  as  he  held  out  his 
hand.  "And  oh.  before  I  forget.  Father  ORourke 
tokl  me  to  tell  you  he  wants  to  call  on  you  ;  he  said 
he'd  come  on  Saturday  night  if  it's  convenient  for 
you.  You'll  find  him  a  jewel.  a.s  I  said  ;  and  I  make 
the  prediction  that  you  and  he  will  be  great  cron 


lies 


'■iiJ»*Lit  j*.-»*s-.«'i'i"  -  '■'-k ■■■  ',*■>.  •:V:*«^^=2&*'-':;*-; 


HIRAM  S    PRIEST 


2bs 


— you  see  if  I'm  not  riglit.     Good-bye  till  to-mor- 
row." 

•'  Good-night,  I  Iiram,  I'll  be  glad  to  sec  the  lather 
— Saturday  night  will  suit  all  right.  Goud-night.uiid 
thank  you  again." 


When  Saturday  evening  came,  Stephen  wa;,  sealed 
in  his  study,  glad  to  escape  tium  the  telle >\\ -boarders 
who  seemed  desirous  uf  closer  acciu.iiiilaii  je  with  so 
conspicuous  a  ligure  in  the  city's  hie. 

It  was  still  early ;  and  he  turned  toward  the  care- 
fully written  sermon  before  hiiii,  alreatly  well  re- 
hearsed, whose  delivery  on  the  morrow  uu.-,  to  mark 
the  beginning  of  his  ministry  in  the  Church  of  the 
Covenant 

Lit  he  had  hardly  taken  it  in  his  hand  when  an 
obsequious  voice  without  announced  the  advent  of 
the  expected  visitor,  and  in  a  moment  Stephen  was 
at  the  door,  his  hand  outstretched  in  welcome. 

"  Is  thib  Father  O'Ruurke  I  have  the  pleasure  of 
speaking  to  ?    Come  away  in— I  was  looking  for  you." 

•'  That's  who  I  be;  and  I'm  glad  to  mat,'  you,  Mr. 
Wishart,"  replied  a  rich  Irish  voice. 

The  face  of  his  new  acquaintance  was  full  of  gen- 
uine humanity,  lit  up  with  an  almost  l,oyi.-,h  sinilc, 
while  the  seriousness  of  deep  spiritual  liie  looked  out 
Irom  the  ha/.cl  eyes. 

1  he  marks  of  strife  were  there,  secret  and  long 
continued  conflict  against  those  i)riiicipalilies  and 
powers  which  unsh.Mth  their  keenest  swords  for 
worthy  foemen,  and  for  ilieiii  alone. 


^^ 


266 


•THE    UNDERTOIV 


M 


And  upon  his  splcndicl  brow  the  chasuned  banner 
of  the  victorious  was  viable  to  all  who  huvc  learned 
the  secret  standards  ot"  tii-it  holy  war.  The  sym- 
pathy that  shone  troir.  his  tender  eyes  betokened  hnn 
a  conciueror ;  tor  they  who  have  struj,-led  and  pre- 
vailed will  draw  their  swords  the  ciuickest  for  the  van- 
quished, and  the  nail-thrust  hand  that  lias  endured 
IS  ever  laid  the  tenderest  upon  the  sin-wounds  of  the 
weak. 

As  Stephen  looked  upon  him.  as  he  heard  his  voice, 
he  felt  that  he  might  well  deserve  the  place  I  liram 
had  accorded  him  as  the  first  preacher  of  his  city. 
l^or  his  whole  bearing  attested  him  a  faithful  serxant 
of  the  Church  whose  narrowness  and  ccclesiasticism 
the  largeness  of  his  nature  had  outgrown.  His  fii^t 
indenture  was  to  God. 

And  his  voice  was  the  voice  of  eloquence,  with  all 
of  love  and  sympathy  and  insight  and  power  that  the 
great  word  implies.  A  strong  Irish  brogue  marked 
his  speech  when  it  voiced  its  lighter  moods;  but,  in 
the  glow  of  sermon  and  appeal,  the  whole  city  had 
remarked  the  rich  culture  of  Jiis  accent,  his  words 
retaining  only  the  delicious  suggestion  of  his  native 
lane' 

Stephen  led  Father  O'Rourke  to  a  chair,  and  the 
tw. .  clergymen  were  soon  engros>cd  in  a  c(,nvers.ation 
tha:bade  iair  for  the  future  intimacy  of  which  H.rani 
felt  so  sure.  T!,e  far  different  Churches-and  tlieir 
historu:  antas...H.m  -to  which  they  respectively  be 
longed,  seemed  quite  forgotten  in  the  mutual  plea- 
ure  that  their  new-born  acquaintance  had  provided 


HIRAM'S   PRIEST 


267 


The  latest  phases  of  reUgious  thoufjht ;  tlic  drift  of 


uhti 


liases 
inion  at  home  and 


the 


the 


across 

charm  and  prophecy  of  the  opening  Hfe  in  their  onn 
new  and  wonderful  land—  amid  such  themes  as  thcac 
their  talk  flowed  on,  each  more  and  more  convinced 
that  he  had  found  in  the  other  a  con<:;enial  friend. 

"  I  must  be  fjoinc^,"  the  priest  said  at  lenj^th,  "  I've 
got  to  sec  a  man  that's  dying." 

"  Well,"  Stephen  rejoined,  "  I  recki:)n  I'd  better  get 
to  work  myself.  I'm  just  getting  in  some  final  strokes 
on  my  sermon  for  to-morrow." 

The  priest  glanced  at  the  manuscript  upon  the  desk. 

"  I  find  a  visit  to  the  dying  a  fine  preparation  for  a 
sermon,"  he  said.  "  It  gives  it  the  human  touch  ; 
there's  nothing  in  a  sermon  so  fine  as  a  face — a  face 
looking  out  at  the  audience.  I  hope  you'll  have  a 
fine  time  to-morrow. " 

"  Thank  you,"  Stephen  answered,  "  I'm  just  a  little 
nervous  over  it  myself." 

"  Och,  the  mischief,"  the  priest  returned,  shrug- 
ging his  shoulders  ;  "  niver  a  bit  ye  nade  to  be. 
You've  got  a  swell  lot  o'  people  there — but  they're 
only  Jerusalem  sinners  like  the  rest  of  us.  Wrap 
the  owld  flag  round  ye,  my  boy,  and  give  it  to  them 
straight.  But  a  lot  depinds  on  your  first  sermon. 
Don't  try  to  grip  them  by  the  brains — they're  toircd  o' 
that.  And  don't  catch  them  by  the  poetry  part  o' 
them — and  don't  deafen  them  wid  noise.  I'm  older 
than  you  ;  and  I  tell  you,  catch  them  by  the  heart. 
Every  minister  of  God  should  be  a  specialist  ;  and 
his  specialty  should  ije  the  heart,  always  tiie  heart," 


i 


i!     i- 


J."  £ 

r  4", 


f  1 

3. 


268 


THE    UNDERTOW 


he  concluded,  smiling  at  Stephen  in  a  fatherly  sort 
of  way.  /   ^^11 

"  Thank  you ;  I'll  try  it  I  believe  you're  right 
You  re  a  priest  of  the  Church  of  Rome  and  I'm  a 
mm.ster  of  the  Church  of  Scotland-b.t  I  .hall  look 
Jor  your  help  and  advice.  Father  OKourke  I  feel 
that  you  have  hcl{x>d  me  already  " 

frindl"' th/"  "'?''"■'   '""^  "^'"  ^^-  ^""^^'  '■-•- 
such  ;  11  ?:r    '■''P''"'''^  ^^"^'■^•^>'  ■'  "  t''^^-'^  "ot 

'stcr.  and  a  mm,.stcr's  a  priest-and  they're  both 
poor  sm,ul  cratures.  One  word-stick  to  Jhe  Cross. 
y  son.  Hold  you  to  the  Cross.  Let  the  modern 
thought  go  to  the  divil  if  it  stroikes  at  that.     And  I 

Don     be  long  w.d  yere  love-makin' ;  get  a  wife  to 
yourself-thafs  an  owld  priest's  advice  to  ye.    Every- 
thmg  depinds    on   the   kind   you   get.     Why    yere 
people  are  jabberin'  away  about  it  already.     Thev've 
got  it  all  fixed      She's  got  to  be  refoined.  and  in'tiUi- 
gint.  and  blue-blooded  to  the  quane's  tr^te-and  illi- 
gant  *  .  ,oc,ety  purposes,  togg.-d  up   to  knock  the 
spots  aff  anythmg  in  the  city.     That's  tlieir  oidea. 
But  you  tell  th..n  to  go  to  Old  Harry.     Get  ye  the 
mtd  11,:^''''-^''   -   «P--l-t.,  a    heart-spedalis, 

rnn^''  f  ^"Pi^^^' f "'^arrassed  ;  for  all  of  Stephen's  self 
athl^^"  ,'"  ''^  "'"'^^'  °''  ^-^'Ption  practised 
tlfr"""""  ""''  ^"  ^<^turn-were  unavailing 
agamst  the  torrent  of  confusion  and  dismay  th^ 
poured  Itself  into  his  face. 


HIRAM  S   PRIEST 


2bQ 


For  when  he  had  slipped  into  the  ;iwl"ul  poHcy  ot' 
silence,  he  had  nut  allowed  for  the  trembliiv^  >cn-e  of 
dan^jer  ;  for  the  bitter  upbraidinr;;  of  a  licart  that  -lili, 
with  all  its  ebb  ai.il  llow,  clun^  to  his  wife  with  a 
love  that  tortured  ;  for  the  sickenin-f  sensation  of 
a  double  life,  knowing  that  life  a  lie.  And  as  he 
listened  to  the  priests  jaunty  word^,  all  of  the.-'e  smote 
his  heart  in  unison. 

"  Lxcuse  me.  Mr.  Wishart,  excuse  me  please.' 
Father  (J'Rourke  began  apologetically.  "  It's  not 
for  me  to  give  advoice  about  tie  tinder  passK^n.  I 
moight  have  known  you  have  it  all  settled  by  this 
toime.  And  wliat  roight  has  an  owld  statj  loike  me 
to  be  pratin'  about  such  matters  ?  I  was  niver  in 
love  myself  but  wanst — wanst  at  a  toime,  that  is. 
I  was  only  chaffin'  ye — don't  think  anny  more 
about  it." 

Stephen's  composure  was  soon  regained.  "  1  don't 
doubt  you're  well  up  in  the  theory,  I'"afher  O'Rourke, 
even  if  you  haven't  had  the  practice,"  he  said  walk- 
ing with  him  to  the  door  and  bidding  him  good-ni:;hl 
wttii  cordial  warmth. 

When  his  visitor  was  gone,  Stephen  returned  to 
his  study,  his  heart  hot  with  its  fiery  tumult,  but  hi.-, 
face  blanched  and  pale. 

tie  sat  long,  holding  his  head  in  his  hand^,  the 
shadows,  unheeded  all,  closing  in  about  him  ;  tlarker 
shadows  seemed  groping  with  cruel  hands  about  his 
unhappy  heart.  Where  now,  he  thouglu  to  himself. 
is  the  unpuisoned  happiness  which  so  sliort  a  time 
ago  he  felt  was  his  forever?     Where  now,  the  joy 


■  t 


••;>:* 


I  - 


270 


THE    UNDERJOIV 


and  testfulness  of  love,  the  shelter  built  by  unseen 
hands  in  which  their  two  nestling  souls  were  to  find 
peace  at  last?  Was  there  to  be  no  end  to  this 
strange  tangle,  this  maddening  njaze  of  things  ?  Was 
God  bent  on  baffling  him  at  every  turn  ? 

Suddenly,  obedient  to  an  inward  voice  that  seemed 
to  blend  with  th-  invitation  of  the  dark,  he  slipped 
on  to  his  knees  and  began  to  pray.  But  his  flounder- 
ing soul  could  find  no  foothold  for  his  flij^ht ;  the 
voice  of  unreality  seemed  to  mock  him  wilh  its  jeer- 
ing laugh— and  in  a  moment  he  arose. 

Then  he  called  for  a  light,  and  gave  himself  with 
desperate  earnestness  to  the  mastery  of  his  morning's 
sermon  from  the  text :  "  and  the  truth  shall  make 
you  free," 


XXI 


A    DOUBLE    LIFE 

THE  busy  months  have  passed,  and  Stephen 
Wishart,  minister  of  the  Church  of  the 
Covenant,  ;  •  ajjain  seated  amid  the  encir- 
cling gloom;  again  he  holds  his  hand:  to  his  head, 
crouching  among  the  shadows,  giving  himself  up  to 
the  sombre  thoughts  that  were  now  his  abiding  por- 
tion. To-morrow  is  to  sec  him  started  on  the  most 
joyous  journey  of  his  life  ;  not  with  this,  however,  is 
his  thought  engrossed,  but  witii  the  weary  way  that 
lies  behind.  Yes,  these  bygone  months  have  come 
wearily,  and  as  wearily  have  gone,  since  he  struck  the 
key-note  of  his  ministry  in  his  first  sermon  on  "  the 
emancipating  power  of  the  truth." 

For,  to  begin  w  ith,  his  first  sermon  had  been  a  dis- 
appointment. As  an  evidence  of  his  great  gifts,  as  a 
pledge  of  his  commanding  eloquence,  it  had  won  the 
applause  of  all.  He  had  reaffirmed  his  reverent  laith 
in  the  Bible  as  the  living  word,  proclaimed  it  with 
the  same  eloquent  originality  as  had  marked  his 
Hyde  Park  oration — this  general  view  he  em- 
phasized.  But  he  had  seen  fit  to  fiirtlicr  elaborate 
his  theological  position,  and  to  acclaim  lac  new  ligiit 
that  was  banishing  the  extreme  conservatism  re- 
garding  the    Scriptures.     Me   had  paid  a  generous 

271 


212  THE    LXDLRTOH' 

tribute  to  the  tVuitfuInc^.  of  criticism,  in  bc-cttiiirj  a 
spirit  of  clia::cMi:c  and  research,  ami  huA  "cpcareti 
twice  that  "th.ic  live,  mnrc  f.iith  in  honc.st  duubt. 
believe  nie.  t!iaii  iii  half  liie  cited-." 

Thi>  opcnm-  scini.,n  li.ul  bcL.i  publidicd  in  one-  of 
the  city  pa-pei^  under  tiie  hcariuie  of  ••  The'  New 
'lheol„.L;y  •■  ;  but,  althou-h  it  enhance  1  hi>  fame  a. 
an  orator,  it  had  br.n,-ht  forth  httic  to  encoura-c 
him.  "" 

AH  of  tliis  had  brought  him  Httle  comfort.  There 
came  a  letter,  too— from  hi.  father.  Ii  told  of  the 
continued  lucrativeness  of  the  oil  wells;  of  the 
further  adjournment  of  Reuben's  wcddin-  of  the 
prosperit)-  of  their  church  under  Mr.  Shearer  ;  then 
there  was  a  postscri[)t  which  read  : 

"  I  saw  a  screed  i'  the  paper  aboot  yir  openin'  ser- 
mon.    Von  wa-s  a  jjrand  text  ye  had." 

Many  others,  too,  of  the  humble  folk  around  .Ste- 
phen's early  home  had  read  cafjcrly  the  rep.irt  of  his 
first  discourse.  And  the  next  .Sabbath  day  it  was 
gravely  discussed  by  a  group  of  tampers  about  the 
door  ot  their  little  church. 

"  I'm  no-  surprised,"  said   one  -rav -bearded  man 
"  at  the  kind  o'  stuff  he  fjave  them.     He  stole:  twa  o' 
m>-  watermelons  when  he  was  a  laddie— and  I  wasna 
Raein'  to  '^ay  onythin-  aboot  it,  till  I  saw  yon  scree  I 
i'  the  papers." 

"  Noo  that  )-e  sj)eak  o't."  contributed  another 
"  yin  nicht  I  was  walkin'  hame  i'  the  dark—and  he 
fired  a  pistol  frac  behind  a  fenr^>_and  the  shot 
banged  aboot  my  lugs.     I  wasna  gaein'  to  tell  e^iicr 


A      WUPLE   I. IFF 


37V 


He  throwed  the  shot  wi"  hi>  hand,  I  found  oat  l.inpj 
sync — and  I  ran  Ukc;  a  leer.  Sac  I  \va>na  Mirprised 
at  yon  bit  i'  tlic  p.ipcrs. 

"1  dinna  tliink  nacth..  '  aboot  \ir  melon.-,  or  yir 
rinnin',"  said  a  kindly  elder  of  the  kirk  .  "  a  laddie's 
aye  a  laddie,  l-ut  yon  new  view  abo.  a  the  auKl 
theology — I  caiina  for!:;ic  hini  that.  What  s  v  ye, 
Donald?"  He  turned  to  a  sweet  laced  li  lener,  the 
minister's  right-hand  nuui. 

Donald  was  silent  for  a  moment,  smiling  sadly, 
with  hi>  eyes  nn  the  ground, 

"Puir  laddie,  miickle  he  kens  aboot  it. "  And  the 
others  said  no  more. 


Nor  was  this  his  only  disappointment.  He  was 
disappointed,  bitterly  so,  in  the  people  he  had  been 
called  to  serve. 

Proud,  ambitioi  .  frivolous  for  the  most  part,  their 
estimate  of  his  \v<  th  had  laid  its  strongest  empha.Ms 
upon  various  social  functions  which  he  was  supposed 
to  assist  and  adorn,  but  which  his  soul  had  learned  to 
loathe.  Once  he  had  been  urged  to  tarry  at  a  dinner 
party,  summons  1  from  its  rcvc!  though  he  \va-  to  the 
bedside  of  a  dyiii  :  child.  "  They  do  not  belong  to 
our  church,"  he  had  been  reassured  ;  "  and,  besides, 
nine  chances  to  one  it's  some  contagious  disease  ;  you 
must  think  r.f  .others,  you  know."  Hut  he  had  scorned 
their  counsel;  lor.  after  all,  he  \.a.s  Robert  Wishart's 
child. 

More    than    thi?,    a    spirit    of    restlessness    was 
astir;  he  knew  it;  he  could  feel  it.     Be.Mdes,  there 


%J 


MICROCOPY   RESOIUTWN   TEST   CHART 

(ANSI  and  ISO  TEST  CHART  No    2) 


A     >1PPLIED  \hMCE 


'65 J   Cost   Mam   Street 

■Rochester,   Ne«   vo'k        '4609       uSA 

'716)   482  ^03ry-      Phone 

(7'6)   288  -  598J  -  Fa, 


374 


THE    UNDERTOiy 


1  .„  i.a; 


was  good  reason  for  it,  poor  Stephen  reflected  to  him- 
self, sitting  with  his  burning  cheeks  still  resting  on 
his  hands. 

For  to-morrow  he  was  to  set  forth  for  New  York— 
to  meet  his  wife.  Her  steamer  was  due  to  land  the 
followmg  day.     And  then— what  then  ? 

Not  that  his  own  love  had  lessened.     Rather  it  had 
deepened ;  fanned  by  loneliness  and  longing  it  had 
broken  into  brighter  flame.     Her  patience,  her  un- 
selfishness, her  heroic  endurance  of  the  long  separa- 
tion he  had  declared  as  wise  and  necessary,  her  sweet 
and  tender  letters,  aglow  with  love  for  him  and  with 
eager  enquiries  for  the  progress  of  his  noble  work  • 
her  pathetic  prophecies  of  the  happiness  and  useful- 
ness that  he  and  she  were  to  know  together  in  their 
toil  for  souls-these  had  clothed  her  in  spotless  white 
before  his  reverent  gaze  and  had  kept  alive  the  pure 
passion  of  his  love. 

But  he  would  never  forget  the  awkwardness— the 
agony  ,ndeed-of  the  dreary  time  that  had  elapsed 
since   he  and  his  secret  had  first  entered  the  pulpit 
which  was  his  own  at  last.     Many  had  lightly  advised 
him    of  his    need   of  a  helpmeet,    unconscious   of 
the  poison  that  the  gayest  shaft  may  bear.     Others 
had  whispered  to  him  that  suspicion  and  mistrust  and 
jealousy  would  surely  arise  sooner  or  later  among 
the  c/i^t/>/es  of  his  flock.     And  at  last,  wrung  by  the 
distracting  situation,  he  had  thought  i^  wise  to  tell  a 
few,  who  in  turn  thought  it  wise  to  tell  the  world 
that  he  was  linked  to  a  heart  across  the  sea 

Whereupon  the  Church  of  the  Covenant  had  seized 


A    DOUBLE   LIFE 


215 


its  inlaid  fan  in  a  flutter  of  excitement  it  had  never 
known  before.  Particulars  were  not  forthcoming ; 
details  were  denied  their  thirsty  souls — and  the  con- 
gregational fan  flew  fast  and  furious.  Five  o'clocks 
— and  even  hospitality — grew  apace,  these  hurried 
councils  necessary  to  the  crisis. 

The  past  was  ransacked,  the  future  foreboded,  with 
desperate  earnestness.  Matrons,  mathematically  and 
matrimonially  inclined,  disclosed  to  mutual  hearts  the 
ghastly  number  of  his  entertainments  at  their  homes, 
the  dark  lightning  of  expense  illumining  the  estimate. 
Then  they  bewailed  his  faithlessness,  entering  into 
solemn  compact  to  risk  no  more  the  daughters  of 
their  bosoms,  which  daughters  were  fervidly  con- 
gratulated upon  the  felicity  of  their  escape  ;  and  the 
escaped  responded  with  only  moderate  enthusiasm. 


Debt  added  to  his  misery.  He  had  accepted 
Hiram's  offer  of  a  loan  and  invested  its  proceeds  in 
stocks  that  were  so  sure  to  rise.  Hiram  held  his 
note,  acting  as  his  broker.  And  the  stock  had 
risen,  then  halted,  then  steadily  declined.  Stephen 
had  continued  to  cover — for  his  investment  was  on 
margin.  This  necessitated  further  loans  from  the 
original  source  till  he  was  deep  in  Hiram's  debt. 
The  latter  had  eventually  taken  the  stock  off  his 
hands,  buying  at  a  fatal  figure,  after  which  it  began 
mysteriously  to  ascend.  But  the  mischief  had  been 
done ;  the  original  and  the  accumulated  debt  was 
still  to  be  paid. 

To  make  matters  worse  Hiram  had  ^^egun  to  throw 


•L.    1 

4: 

276 


■THE    UNDERTOIV 


out  little  hints  as  to  the  pleasure  a  settlement  would 
afford  him.  He  had  gone  so  far  as  to  say,  even 
though  he  laughed  as  he  said  it,  that  love  for  souls 
and  zeal  for  the  glory  of  God  were  no  doubt  good  in 
their  way,  but  that  the  kind  of  religion  which  paid 
ordinary  business  debts  was  good  enough  for  him. 

Of  course,  he  had  added,  one  would  see  thincs 
differently  if  he  had  been  called  to  the  ministry  of 
the  Word ;  three  day  grace  was  a  poor  affair  com- 
pared to  the  large  kind  Stephen  had  to  preach,  he 
knew ! 

But  chief  of  all  his  torments  was  the  secret  gnaw- 
ing of  a  conscience  that  was  neither  dead  nor  sleep- 
ing. The  truth  is,  he  was  striving  desperately  to 
serve  his  God,  unhallowed  though  the  altar  to  which 
he  clung.  In  that  service  he  had  moments  of  peace, 
even  of  fleeting  joy.  Swift  gleams  of  sunshine  fell 
now  and  then  upon  the  stream  of  his  unhappy  life, 
when  it  would  emerge  from  its  swampy  way,  leaping 
in  the  new-found  light.  But  this  was  soon  forgotten 
in  the  dark  morass  into  which  it  swiftly  flowed  again, 
swallowed  up  of  conquering  shadows  that  lay  in  wait 
beyond 

Wherefore    these    moments  of  transient  light 

sometimes  in  his  pulpit;  sometimes  by  the  dying 
bed  ;  sometimes  in  the  thrill  of  new  and  holy  reso- 
lutions— these  had  come  to  be  the  moments  of  his 
keenest  anguish.  For  he  knew  they  were  only  a 
soul's  reprieve.  And  the  waiting  Valley  of  the 
Shadow  held  them  in  utter  scorn. 


isL::^^:*^ 


A    DOUBLE   LIFE 


211 


•*  Oh,  Stephen,  Stephen  ! " 

"  Hattie,  my  darUng— my  wife,  my  Hattie — it's 
been  so  long ;  but  it's  all  over  now." 

The  sweet  fragrance  of  spring,  undenied  even  to 
the  great  metropolis,  is  drifting  in  through  the  open 
window  of  the  New  York  hotel  where  two  long- 
sundered  hearts  are  drinking  deep  of  the  old  well- 
spring  of  healing. 

"  I  stood  four  hours  on  the  pier,  I  lattie — and  I 
saw  the  ship  before  any  of  the  others.  It  fairly 
seemed  to  creep  ;  but  a  man  with  a  glass  said  it  was 
the  Etmria — oh,  Hattie,  Hattie,  my  darling  !  " 

"  Why,  Stephen,  that's  nothing  to  my  wait.  I 
stood  at  the  bow  since  early  morning — of  course  I 
went  down  to  dinner — but  I  just  thought  I  couldn't 
wait.  But  I'm  here — and  you're  here,  darling — and 
we'll  never,  never  be  parted  any  more,  v.'ill  we  ?  " 

His  answer  was  given  not  in  speech.  But  the  man 
who  held  her  so  tenderly  close  to  him  was  thanking 
heaven  for  the  love  that  he  knew  had  made  him  in- 
dependent of  the  world.  The  purity  of  the  face  he 
caressed  so  gently,  the  sweet  wholesomeness  of  the 
graceful  figure  that  '.ay  well  contented  in  his  arms, 
the  artless  speech  that  told  the  story  of  almost  fool- 
ish happiness — ^that  all  these  were  his,  and  all  this  for 
h'  lied  his  heart  with  a  calm  it  had  not  known  for 
long. 

For  the  fear  had  seized  him,  and  had  clung  to  him 
even  on  the  pier,  that  his  trial  might  come  in  this 
heart  hunger,  never  to  be  satisfied ;  in  a  burning  love 
that  was  to  torture  him  because  it  was  denied. 


278 


■THE    UNDERTOIV 


But  it  was  not  to  be.     God  is  love ;  and  in  love  He 
glories  ;  and  the  fields  of  the  evil  and  the  unthought- 

ful  share  His  impartial  rain.     And  she  is  his she  is 

ill  his  arms  ;  and  nothing  but  death  can  separate  them 
more. 


|i|i^ 


il 


It  is  toward  evening  now,  and  a  peculiar  stillness 
has  wrapped  itself  about  them. 

"  Stephen,  why  don't  you  talk  to  me  ?  Take  me, 
my  husband,"  she  said,  the  pure  colour  that  had  en- 
chanted him  before  flowing  from  neck  to  brow  as  she 
stole  into  his  arms.  It  was  the  same  rich  tide  he  had 
first  seen  the  very  night  they  met.  "  Is  anything 
troubling  you,  darhng  ?  Won't  you  tell  your  wife  ?  " 
she  pleaded. 

Stephen  waited  a  moment.  "Yes,  Hattie,"  his 
voice  hoarse  and  unsteady,  "  I  want  to  tell  you  some- 
thing. Did  you  ever  hear  of  a  Scotch  marriage, 
Hattie  ?  " 

"  Yes,  of  course— my  father  and  mother  were 
Scotch ;  and  they  got  married.  Of  course— there 
have  been  lots  of  Scotch  marriages." 

"  Yes,  I  know,  dear.  But  I  mean  the  ancient  Scot- 
tish ceremony — a  man  and  a  woman  taking  each  other 
as  husband  and  wife— just  themseiv  s,  you  know." 

"  Not  before  a  minister?— And  not  before  any  wit- 
nesses ?  "  Hattie  asked  wonderingly. 

"  No— just  before  their  God.  That's  a  marriage, 
you  know,"  Stephen  answered,  his  eyes  aflame  as 
they  searched  Hattie's  face. 

"Is  it?     It's  a  funny  kind  of  a  marriage,     But  I 


A    DOUBLE    LIFE 


279 


think  I  have  heard  of  it — and  I'm  j^lad  ours  wasn't 
that  kind,  aren't  you  ?  I've  got  our  marriai^e  lines ; 
I  have  them  in  here,"  she  said,  touching  her  bo.som 
with  her  hand,  the  wondrous  eyes  beaming  up  at  him 
in  trust  antl  happine?s. 

"  Yes,  darhng,  of  course  I  am.  Ikit  llattie — here, 
let  me  whisper  it ;  I  want  Ub  to  have  that  kind  of  a 
marriage  now — ^just  us  two  before  our  God." 

The  girl  started,  trembUng.  "  Stephen,  oh,  Stephen, 
tell  me  quick — what  do  you  mean.*  .Vren't  we  mar- 
ried, Stephen  ?  Aren't  you  my  husband — and  I  your 
wife?     Oh,  Stephen." 

He  drew  her  down  closer,  holding  the  fluttering 
form,  whispering  long.  The  scarlet  face  emerged  at 
last.  "  Is  that  the  reason,  Stephen?  Just  that  we 
can  tell  them  we  were  married  in  New  York — with- 
out telling  a  lie?  Oh,  Stephen,  you  said  you'd  tell 
them  we  were  married  as  soon  as  you  got  to  Hamil- 
ton. Why  didn't  you  ?  Oh,  why  didn't  you, 
Stephen  ?     I  didn't  make  any  secret  of  it  to  anybody." 

He  repeated  to  her  the  considerations  that  had 
prompted  his  silence,  Hattie  struggling  hard  to  see 
their  wisdom. 

"  Yes,  I  think — I  think  I  understand,"  she  said 
slowly  at  length.  "  But  I  don't  see  why  they  should 
look  down  on  the  Army.  I  tried  to  be  a  good 
soldier ;  and  I'm  sure  that's  what  they'd  want  their 
minister's  wife  to  be.  Oh,  Stephen,  I'll  do  anything 
you  want — I'll  marry  you  over  again  that  v.-ay — that 
is,  if  you  think  it  best.  Oh,  Stephen,  Stephen,"  she 
cried,  her  arms  like  a  vise  about  his  neck,  the  hot 


28o 


THE    UNDERJOIV 


In 


p,\. 


I 


tears  flowing  fast,  "  let  us  get  some  otlicr  place — some 
nice  congregation  in  the  country,  1  love  the  country 
so — with  green  fields  and  sweet  flowers  and  dear  kind 
people,  where  we  can  walk  and  drive — and  have  each 
other — and  live  so  near  to  God,"  she  sobbed  iii  a 
burst  of  longing.  "  I  don't  want  to  go  and  live  with 
a  lot  of  rich  people.  They'll  want  you  all  to  them- 
selves. And  they'll — they'll  ask  me  where  I  met  \ou. 
And  it  doesn't  matter  where — it  doesn't  matter; 
you  re  my  husband  and  I  love  you— and  it  was  God 
gave  jou  to  me — wherever  1  met  you.  He  sent  you 
to  me,  my  darling.  But  they  wouldn't  undei-stand. 
And  I  want  to  be  happy,  Stephen;  oh,  I  do  want  to 
be  happy — for  it's  been  nearly  all  sorrow,  and  I 
thought  it  was  all  past  now." 

As  best  he  could,  he  petted  and  caressed  the  sob- 
bing gi.l,  his  lips  straying  among  the  golden  strands 
or  pressed  to  the  quivering  Ups,his  whole  soul  brood- 
ing over  her  in  compassionate  devotion. 

Then  he  gently  untwined  her  arms,  groping  rever- 
ently for  the  little  cross ;  the  idea  had  suddenly  pos- 
sessed him. 

'•  You  hold  it,  sweetheart,"  he  murmured  ; "  and  I'll 
hold  it  too — and  we'll  make  our  vows  together.  It's 
all  so  holy,  dear." 

She  smiled,  laying  her  hand  obediently  beside 
his  own.  And  they  repeated  each  to  the  other  the 
immortal  promise  that  hurls  defiance  at  everything 
but  death.  Then  all  was  still,  their  souls  clinging  in 
a  new  embrace. 


A    DOUBLE    LIIE 


381 


The  dark-ncs  has  fallen,  the  noises  of  the  nii:^'lity 
city  stealin;^  in  upon  tiiem  with  ^tealthier  ticad,  as 
these  two  souj^ht  to  take  up  the  pa>t,  -trurj^linj;  to 
believe  it  as  unstained  as  ever. 

But  the  deepenin<i  ni^^ht  was  not  responsible  for  all 
the  darkness  that  reigned  about  them.  A  shadowy 
something,  undefined  and  undefinable— but  the  more 
darksome  all  for  that — seemed  to  mingle  with  the  joy 
they  were  striving  to  protect.  I  lattie's  gaze  was  fixed 
upon  far  distant  ligiits,  gravely  wondering,  question 
after  question  coming  and  going  in  silent  apparition. 

Once  or  twice  she  laid  her  hand  upon  her  heart  as 
if  trying  to  locate  some  secret  wound  whose  flow 
must  be  ouickly  staunched. 

"  Hattie.  my  darling.     Ilattie." 

"  Yes,  Stephen." 

"  Don't  you  love  me,  Hattie  ?  Don't  you  love  me 
just  as  well  as  you  ever  did.  my  darling  ?  " 

"  Why,  Stephen,  what  a  foolish  question  !  Yes,  of 
cour'-'^  '  do  ;  you're  my  husband." 

P  iging  eyes,  so  familiar  with  the  touch  of 

tea.     It.    i     -d  their  quest  of  the  far  unknown. 


wm 


XXII 
HATTIE  And  HIRAM  MEET 


S 


ING    them   'The    Rosary,'  Mis.    Wishart ; 
they've  never  heard  you  sin^  that — and  it's 
your  bc^t.     Will  you  let  me  turn  the  music 
for  you  ?  " 

"  Shall  I  ?  Do  you  really  like  it,  Father 
O'Rourke?" 

"  Loikc  it !  W'in  oi'm  at  my  work,  it's  loikc  to 
kill  me,  mu-ndin'  to  for^^et  it ;  it's  loike  sippin'  nectar 
to  hear  it.     Where's  yere  husband  ?  " 

"  He's  busy  in  his  study — I  wassosorryhecculdn't 
come  to-night." 

"  If  he  wants  to  kape  humble,  he'd  better  kape 
away  when  ye're  singin'  '  The  Rosary.'  Shall  I  raise 
the  piano-stool — up  forninst,  loike,  a  little?"  and 
the  genial  priest  twirled  the  ascending  chair. 

Beauty  can  never  be  complete  till  sorrow  hath 
contributed  its  magic  part :  and  the  soulful  charm  of 
Hattie's  face  mingled  well  with  the  splendid  plaint  of 
her  thrilling  voice,  as  the  chastened  strains  of  "  The 
Rosary  "  floated  from  her  lips. 

Nor  did  this  fascinating  shade  disappear  from  eye 
and  lip  as  she  returned  to  her  seat  in  an  embowered 
corner  of  the  room.  Some  one  had  taken  her  place 
at  the  piano,  turning  from  grave  to  gay,  convulsing 
every  listener  with  the  mirth  that  is  ever  thrice  wel- 
come after  seriousness,  like  sunshine  after  rain. 

282 


"'<^^fm^ms^!^M^m^^^^m^^^r4- . 


H  ATT  IE   And    HIRAM    MEET      2«? 

But  Hattie,  alter  a  momentary  smiK:,  was  obliviuus 
to  it  all.  Her  thought  seemed  far  auay,  as  indeed  it 
was,  busy  with  its  retrospect  of  tlie  path  by  which  slie 
had  been  led,  since  she  came  to  Hamilton  as  the  wife 
of  its  most  [)ri/.ed  minister.  And  more  of  thorn  than 
blossom  wa^  min;4led  with  the  view.  She  thoui^ht, 
and  sifjhed  as  she  thou^'ht,  of  her  rude  awakening;  to 
the  necessity  under  which  she  had  been  laid  of  con- 
cealing^ her  former  relati(jns  ;  and  >he  thought,  with 
a  yet  hepvier  heart,  of  the  lou^  .-cries  of  subterfuges, 
so  alien  to  her  nature,  that  necessarily  had  to  follow. 

Signs  of  suspicion,  too,  and  jealousy,  and  even  of 
disdain,  she  fancied  she  could  now  and  then  detect : 
as  was  only  natural,  perhaps,  considering  the  embar- 
rassment of  her  position.  In  fact,  she  was  beginning 
to  confess  to  hcrs-lf  that  she  was  thoioughly  unhappy 
among  these  proud  rich  people — or,  at  lea^t,  she 
knew  she  wculd  have  been  but  for  Stephen  and  hi.-, 
glorious  love.  That  was  an  unsetting  sun.  And  yet 
she  lived  in  trembling  dread  lest  she  herself  might  be 
the  cause,  innocent  though  she  was,  of  staining  his 
proud  position,  of  impairing  the  sway  that  his  person 
and  his  powers  had  secured  him. 

Another  little  sig^  oke  from  he;  lips,  lost  in  a 
fluttering  prayer  for  i.^iO  and  guidance,  this  the  habit 
of  her  simple  life,  when  she  noticed  that  l;er  hostess 
had  taken  a  scat  beside  her. 

"  Well,  my  dear,  you  look  sober  enough  to  be  still 
at  your  rosary.  Rea"y,  Mrs.  Wishart,  you  have  such 
a  lovely  voice;  I  should  think  you  would  never  have 
a  pensive  moment." 


■i^MFJ5ra»^*^#^^^^^iLr^"  l£i,M1    ^  .  ,  *r 


la-      ^i   . 


'li- 


284 


•THE    UNDERTOU^ 


Hattic  smikd.  ••  Sometimes  1  think  our  pensive 
moments  arc  our  ha[)piest,"  >he  aid  ;  "  I  like  tlie 
li^ht  best  when  it's  sheatiied — it  not  too  ni  ich.  Hut 
I'm  sorry  I  was  looking  so  sober." 

"  I  daresay  you  ol'ten  feel  lonely  enough  among  us 
all,"  lier  kind-hearted  hostess  went  on.  "  So  far 
from  your  girlhood's  home.  Oh,  b>-  the  way,  I'm 
e-xpectiuLT  a  gentleman  in  this  evening  who  came 
originally  from  your  dear  old  England  He's  a  little 
late,  but  we  look  for  IMr.  Barker  any  time  up  to " 

"What's  his  name,  did  you  say  ?  "  Ilatlie  inter- 
rupted, her  voice  under  full  control. 

"  Mr.  Harker,  Mr.  Hiram  Barker  ;  he's  an  ICnglish- 
man,  as  I  said.  He's  just  home  from  three  months 
in  California.  Why,  there  he  is  at  the  portiere— I 
didn't  hear  the  bell,  did  you  ?  He's  looking  for  me  : 
just  sit  here  a  minute  and  I'll  introduce  him." 

And  as  Hattie's  gaze  followed  her  hostess'  out- 
stretched hand,  her  thought  flew  back  to  the  mur- 
muring Dee,  swiftly  skimiring  the  dim  days  that 
were  past.  The  young  impressionable  heart,  the 
youth's  handsome  face,  the  girlish  infatuauon.  slight 
and  fleeting  though  it  was,  the  sudden  disappearance 
of  Hiram  Barker  and  the  tidings  that  he  had  gone  to 
America— then  her  heart's  swift  repair,  the  quick 
following  movement  of  her  motherless  life,  then  Lon- 
don— and  Stephen,  the  comfort  and  the  crown  of  all. 


Three-qaarters  of  an  hour  later  the  whole  story 
wa    whispered  into  Stephen's  ear. 


HA  7  TIE   And    HIRAM   MllEJ      ^Ss 


"  And  tell  me.  darlii'^r—JiJ  y^u  i^ri^j^.  jj,,,,  .^^  ^^^^ 
as  he  came  int .  the  room  ?  " 

"  'Ihe  \eiy  iii>tant,  Stephen — and  I  w-s  so  sur- 
prised. I  couldn't  bjlicvc  my  eyes  ;  and  "n.-  stood 
stock  still  for  two  or  three  minutes.  Mrs.  Ilarcourt 
repeated  my  name  once  or  twice— and  then  he  >aid 
•  liattic  '  under  his  breath— but  Mrs.  '  larcourt  heard 
it.  And  he  sat  down  on  a  chair  ri'jht  near  the  door  ; 
and  she  sat  ricjht  down  beside  him  end  bet^an  pelting 

him  with  questions.     I  d-dn't  know  what  to  do I 

didn't  want  to  stay.  So  .  asked  her  if  I  mijijht  use 
the  telephone  ;  that  was  when  I  run^j  you  up.  And 
then  I  told  her  you  wanted  me — and  I  came  away. 

"  And  oh,  Stephen,  I  wish  you  could  have  seen  me 
when  I  came  back  into  the  parlour.  I  was  just 
wicked  enough  to  be  proud  of  myself  for  your  sake. 
I  stood  up  just  as  tall  as  ever  I  could  " — Hattic  was 
on  tiptoe  now — "  and  I  said  '  I'll  have  to  go,  Mrs. 
Harcourt,  my  husband  wants  me  ;  my  husband  wants 
me,'  I  said, '  and  I  must  hurry  ory  ' — and  then  I  said 
good-evening  to  them  all  and  came  right  away." 

"  And  did  Mr.  Barker  say  anything  ;  what  did  Mr. 
Barker  say  ?  "  Stephen  asked  eagerly. 

"  Oh,  he  offered  to  walk  home  with  me— but.  of 
course,  I  wouldn't  hear  of  it.  And  I  thanked  him. 
And,  oh  yes,  he  said  he  would  be  glad  to  do  any 
service  for  the  wife  of  such  a  friend  as  you.  And, 
Stephen,  I  know  it's  awful  of  mc  to  say  it ;  but  I  saw 
into  his  eyes — I'm  hardly  ever  mistaken — and  I  just 
believe  he  just  hates  you.  I  just  know  he  does. 
Aiid  if  he  does,  I'll  hate  him,"  Hattie's  eyes  flashing; 


286 


THE    UNDERTOW 


'I 


iili 


"il; 


with  the  words.  "  If  anybody  dares  to  hate  you, 
darling,  I'll  just  hate  them  back,  I  will.  And  I'm 
sure " 

"  Hush,  sweetheart,  hush,"  Stephen  interrupted, 
his  arm  twining  in  fond  pride  around  her  neck,  draw- 
ing the  flushed  face  down  to  his  own,  "  don't  say 
that,  darling.  Perhaps  he's  not  as  fond  of  me  as 
some  people — but  perhaps  he  has  some  reason  not  to 
hke  me." 

"  What  reason  could  he  have  ? "  cried  Hattie, 
"  why  shouldn't  he  like  you — do  >ou  know  anything 
particular  ?" 

"  I  can't  tell  you  everything,  Hattie — but  I  knew 
Hiram  when  he  first  came  out  from  England.  And 
I  ma/  have  injured  him — without  meaning  to,"  he 
went  on  cautiously.  "  That  is — I  made  a  mistake,  I 
think.  I  was  very  young — and  Hiram  finds  it  hard 
perhaps " 

"  I  don't  believe  it,"  Hattie  contradicted ;  "  you 
have  talked  like  that  once  before,  Stephen ;  and  I 
won't  let  you — so  there." 

Stephen  went  on  :  •'  But  I  really  think  he's  trying 
to  be  a  good  friend  of  mine  now,  Hattie.  He  has 
tried  to  befriend  me  in  one  or  two  ways ;  and  I  want 
you  to  do  something  for  me,  darling.  I  want  you  to 
be  nice  to  Hiram — I  want  you  to  be  nice  to  him. 
You  say  there  was  nothing  that  left  any  scar  between 
you  and  him  ;  he  was  fickle — and — and  mean — and 
you  didn't  care  much.  But  that's  what  gave  you  to 
me,  my  darling — look  up,  Hattie — kiss  mc.  That 
was  what  gave  you  to  me,  dearie.     And  he  had  a 


HAT  TIE    And    HIRAM   MEET      287 


cried  the  most  feminine 
had    rather    dark    hair," 

forgotten    since    I    saw 


disaiopointment  here — he  was  in  love  years  ago,  as  I 
told  you." 

"  What  was  she  like  ?  " 
Hattie,  "  tell  me  about  her. 

"  She    was    short    and 
Stephen  answered. 

"  What  kind  of  eyes  ?  " 

"  Grey,    I    think — I've 
yours." 

"  Don't  be  foolish,  Stephen.  Why  didn't  he 
marry  her  after  all  ?     Why  didn't  he  marry  her  ?  " 

Stephen's  face  was  crimson. 

"  Why  are  yt)u  blushing  so,  Stephen — Stephen, 
your  face  is  like  a  sunset.  Don't  look  at  mc  like 
that — were  you  in  love  with  her  yourself  ?  Stephen 
Wishart,  were  you  in  love  with  her  ?  "  and  she  took 
his  face  in  both  her  hands,  holding  it  straight  in 
front  of  her;  "  tell  me  trutj  now." 

"  No,  darling,  I  never  was." 

"  Then  why  didn't  he  marry  her — why  won't  you 
tell  me  ?  " 

"  I  can't  tell  you,  Hattie— don't  ask  me.  There 
was  a  mistake — a  misunderstanding — I  can't  explain 
it  to  you.  But  he  got  angry — he  thought — that  is, 
Hiram  is  a  very  passionate  man,  you  know.  I  can't 
tell  you,  Hattie — let  nic  think  a  moment."  And  an 
undimmed  drama  rolled  before  his  eyes,  the  dread 
indelible  that  never  fades,  since  it  is  kept  so  carefully 
in  the  dark. 

"  No,  Hattie.  I  can't  tell  you.  Hiram  is  my 
friend,  you  know,"    he  went  on,  brightening  sud- 


i 


2S8 


THE    UNDERTOIV 


denly ;  "  and  he's  trying  to  be  friendly,  I  think  ;  and 
I  want  you  to  be  nice  to  him,  as  I  said.  I  o'.ve  a 
great  deal  to  him— I  can't  just  tell  how— but  I'm 
under  great  obligations  to  him.  He  can  cither  help 
or  hurt  me  a  great  deal ;  and  you'll  try  to  be  pleasant 
to  him  for  your  husband's  sake,  won't  you, 
Hattie  ? " 

Hattie  pondered.  "  I'd  do  anything  for  you,  dear 
—yes,  I'll  try.  And  there  really  isn't  any  reason 
why  I  shouldn't— if  he's  nice  to  you,"  she  added  em- 
phatically.    Then  silence. 

"Hattie,  what's  the  matter?  What  makes  this 
plaintive  mood  that  I  notice  so  often  lately  about  my 
darling  ?     Tell  me  what's  troubling  you." 

Softly  :.e  wooed  her  till  the  golden  head  was  rest- 
ing beside  his,  the  quivering  lips  finally  breaking 
forth: 

"Oh,  Stephen,  I  will  tell  you.  I'm  not  happy 
here— except  for  you,  my  darling.  If  it  weren't  for 
my  husband,  I  couldn't  stand  it  another  day.  I  be- 
lieve some  of  those  great  people  think  I  didn't  win 
you  fairly— and  I  did,  I  did,"  she  exclaimed,  the 
lovely  eyes  dancing  with  the  words.  "  You  know  I 
tried  to  run  away  from  you— into  the  woods, 
Stephen.  You  remember — and  you  followed  me.  I 
wouldn't  run  far  now,  would  I,  darling  ?  "  she  mur- 
mured, as  his  lips  fell  softly  on  her  own. 

"  But,  Stephen,  really,  I'm  not  happy  here,"  she 
went  on ;  "I  believe  lots  of  them  half  suspect— and 
anyhow,  I  don't  believe  they  really  love  the  simple 
Gospel.     And  I  don't  think  they  bring  out  the  best 


H  ATT  IE   And    HIRAM    MEET      iSg 

that's  in  you,  Stephen — as  a  preacher,  I  mean.  Your 
sermons  arc  so  brilliant :  of  course,  I  suppose  they 
have  to  be,  for  people  like  them.  But  I  do  think, 
darling,  anybody  could  preach  better  to  a  congic':;a- 
tion  tnat  felt  they  needed  something,  just  what  these 
people  don't  feel. 

"  Stephen,  do  you  remember  that  night-meeting 
you  and  I  attended  at  the  Jerry  McAuley  mission  in 
New  York  ?  Oh,"  she  cried,  her  face  all  aglow,  "  I 
did  so  want  to  hear  you  speak  that  night — I  thought 
it  was  lovely  there — it  was  so  real ;  it  was  like  saving 
people  from  a  wreck.  I  think  about  it  nea.ly  every 
day.  I'm  sure  we  could  be  happy  there — or  any- 
where where  they  really  felt  their  need  of  us.  Oh, 
Stephen,"  and  his  wife's  arms  are  around  his  neck, 
"  I  want  to  feel  the  reality  of  it,  darling — it  makes  you 
so  much  dearer  to  me.  And  it's  all  so  much  like 
playing  church,  with  those  rich  proud  people.  Do 
you  knovv,"  she  went  on  abandonedly,  "  I  wish  you 
had  gone  to  Morven — I  do — I  do  ;  that  dear  old 
elder  that  I  met  that  Presbytery  day  was  so  sweet 
and  true.  Can't  we  get  some  place  like  that, 
Stephen,  some  nice  country  place,  with  a  dear  little 
manse, — and  trees — and  flowers — and  simple  souls 
that  really  love  the  Gospel  and " 

But  Stephen  interrupted  her.  "  You  don't  under- 
stand, Hattie — you  don't  understand  at  all.  Why,  I 
would  be  wasted  among  people  like  that.  You 
know  I'm  not  vain ,  bat  what  good  would  all  my 
books,  and  all  my  education,  and  my — scholarship  ; 
what  good  would  they  be  for  a  siniple  congregation 


IP 


290 


I'm 


THE    UNDERTOIV 


N 


]  ' 


1^1 


There's    a    fitness   in   everything,  you 


like    that? 
know." 

"  Yes,  I  know,"  Hattie  said ;  "  but  poor  people 
have  the  same  kind  of  sickness  as  rich  people— and 
the  same  kind  of  hunger.  And  isn't  it  just  the  Bread 
of  Life  ever>'body  wants  after  all,  the  ignorant  just 
as  well  as  the  learned  ?  Everybody's  soul  has  the 
same  kind  of  hunger,  Stephen." 

Her  husband  was  fumbling  in  his  pocket,  his  mind 
on  another  quest. 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  "  that's  a  beautiful  thought  of 
yours,  Hattie  ;  but  I've  got  a  little  plan.  Vou  know, 
you  promised  to  go  to  father's  in  a  month  or  two. 
Well,  I  got  a  rail  V'.  ay  time- table  to-day ;  and  I  believe 
I'll  take  you  to  Morven— you  can  go  on  to  the  farm 
the  same  daj'.  And  we'll  have  a  look  at  Morven  ; 
it's  a  pretty  country  place,  they  say—but  I  think  my 
little  wife  will  realize  it's  hardly  the  place  for  us.  Al- 
though," taking  her  hand  in  his,  "  I  could  be  happy 
anywhere,  my  darling,  if  you  were  with  me.  It's 
love  that  makes  the  wilderness  blossom  like  the  rose 
— and  anyhow,  we'll  have  a  happ}-  country  day,  and 
we'll  forget  all  our  troubles  and  just  remember  that 
we  have  each  other." 

And  the  close  clinging  form  told  him  that  they 
who  have  the  love  and  loyalty  of  one  other  life  can 
never  be  reckoned  poor. 


■mm^BMd 


XXIII 


GATHERING     CLOUDS 


<i 


T 


SN'T  this  lovely  ?  Why,  there  really  isn't 
any  Morven  at  all— it's  not  a  place,  is  it  ?  " 
But  there  was  no  shade  of  disappointment 
upon  the  glowing  face  that  looked  out  so  eagerly  on 
the  rich  fields  of  green  stretched  before  them  on 
every  hand.  The  birds'  sweet  music  mingled  with 
the  droning  sound  of  sauntering  bees  ;  the  call  of  the 
plowboy  to  his  lazy  team  came  floating  from  atar ; 
soft  fleecy  clouds  drif-^d  here  and  there  across  the 
sky.  For  the  day  was  not  one  of  those  boisterous 
summer  days  that  laugh  out  loud  for  very  joy  of 
living ;  but  subdued  and  smiling,  rather,  smiling 
gravely  through  its  sunny  veil  of  cloud,  clothing  all 
the  earth  with  its  considerate  light. 

"  Let  us  rest  here,  Stephen  ;  isn't  it  lovely  on  this 
bank?  And  what  a  splendid  elm,  it's  like  old  Kng- 
land,"  and  Hattie's  voice  rang  high  with  happiness. 
"  Let  us  take  long  breaths,  Stephen.  I  just  love  to 
think  how  sweet  and  lovely  it  is  here,  and  how  hot 
and  dusty  it  is  in  the  city.  You  remember,  don't 
you,  Stephen — don't  you  remember  under  another 
tree  ?  "  and  the  still  bridal  face  looked  out  laughingly 
at  her  husband's.  "  !  believe  you've  forgotten — I 
really  do." 

291 


292 


THE   UhJDERTou.- 


--tn't  forget  that  i    waTonc  oTth      '     '^"^   ''"'^ 
streets  that  first  r^ave  vn     .  "'""  ^"'"^  ^^^V 

-red  place  to  L'  VhTts  ^i^ '  "^"'^ '"  '''^'^  ^- 

;;-^-t  ue  used  ?o  ma^  nlnS^T  T"'^'  ^''^-^ 
Go  get  me  those  flouers  yonder  "  '  ''  '^^^* ^ 

valley,  upon  the  cattle ta.^         ?""''  '^'  '''-^'P^-S 
-sting   under  al^  tr  e  "^ '" '''^  "'^^  ^^''^'■^- «? 

glean.:ng  far  beneath  ^  e^'  T".'''  '"^'""^  -- 
-nd  the  humble  hoi  thTt' 7  ^' '""'^^^^  ^^urch 
shadow.  ^  "'^^  '^^'"s  to  sleep  within  its 

The  hours  have  flown  fq^f  ««  .       ^ 
«ver  arc  ,  and  Hattie  sudden  v  ''  ^^^^'^'^^  ^""^ 

"Stephen.  I   want    o  te  ^ "cf  ^'^^  ^^^^• 
manse.     Come  on,  mv  train  I  ^^'^'''^h-and   the 

"  What  for?- h;"C^°^^'"- W" 

on:^-nt^^^;?^^^-^-o  cunning.     Come 

takes  his  hand,  lift-n^  him         T       """'^  '^^''  ^^e 

"  That's  one  tS  JT  P""^""^^^  to  his  feet, 
can  walk  hand    nZn,  .^^  ^'^^  ''^  ^°^'"^^^'-  >'- 
slowly  toward  the  vahey.  '"'"  '^  ''^^^^  ^^"--ed 

They  wandered   a   feu-   ^-     . 
graveyard,  not  in  the  b'    o^r"    ''  u'^""^   "^^   °^^ 
many  a  quaint  epitaph  Ind  L    T'      '  '^"'^'"^^  "'ti 

"  Look,  Hattfe  he'e-ra  '?   "^  ''"' 
ship  in  these  pam     Th.    ^     """"  °^  *^*^  ^^^olar- 
^       ■     ^''"•'"•--  has  been  at  work. 


O^THEKING    CLOUDS  „„ 

Slie  leaned  over : 

"  '"■•"■'-■"  ^ii.  my  dear  and  loving  pa, 

Gna  called  me  home  to  .Uvcll  with  ma  ; 
And  wlicn  you  come  we'll  happy  be—' 
Wou'tj-.u  Le  glad  my  pa  to  see  ?  " 

said "^n'r  "'"',''-"  "  P"'^"'^  ^""^^'^'  ^^-<-V  Stephen 
said     n.„ng,  when  .he  had  fin.hed  ;  ••  hou-  Jould 

you  hke  your  hu.band  to  be  preaching  to  talent  l.ke 

Hatt.e'^'f !  7  ,'"'"^'"^  ''"'^  ^^■'■^"S  about   that," 

that     ev      ir       '    :  '"'^    ""''''''   '-   -yl-w_and 
-la  s  everytlnng.     13c. ides,  they're  not  all  hke  that 

I  saw  one  over  yo.  Jer_there  it  is  ;  did  you  ever 
read  anything  better  than  that ,  "  ^ 

He  read  it  aloud. 

"  Behold  what  witnesses  unseen 
Encompass  us  around  — 
Men  once  like  us  with  suffering  tried 
But  now  with  glory  crowned." 

Phrare'''  'I'^h'"'',  '^""'•"  '''  '''''•  "  ''''  ^"  ^'^  P^^^' 
pnrase-  ..xy  father  loves  them  " 

an  Jat'a  littTe'rT'^  "^'""'  ^'"  ^^••"-  "^  ^^-  ^^urch 
The  si^  "  "'"  '^^  -P-tent,ous  manse. 

of  stone  were  almost  hidden  with  the  flowering  vine 
past,  st.ll  kept  their  place  beneath  the  spouts  that 


294 


THE   UNDER  TO  IV 


#H 


marked  every  corner ;  an  ancient  lightning  rod  kept 
Its  lonely  vigil  far  aloft.  ^ 

J!uV^^  '^T?'^'"^  ''^'"  ^"'■"'■^  '^^'^  h°"^^  ^^-^  f"ll  of 
anunation.      Three  children,  of  adjacent  ages,  were 

nving  to  smother  each  other  with  the  garlands  that 

re  „ou-  in  ruins  ;  tinng  of  this,  they  bedecked  tlie 

p    lent  horse  that  frisked  his  tail  lazily  beneath  the 

^mJ>  apple  tree,  submitting  to  the  coronation  with  a 

meekness  that  spoke  of  long  experience.     And  al- 

u.alyhs   pillow    a    sunbonnet  that  one  of  his 
seniors  had  discarded. 

Peeling  toward  the  window,  they  could  just  make 
out    the  form  of  a  man-evidently  the  minister- 
ponng   over  some  book  that  engrossed   his  whole 
attention      Hom  what  was  evidently  the  kitchen,  the 
sound  of  singing  came,  mingling  with  itie  rattle  of 
dishes  that  explained  the  savoury  odour  floating  out  to 
them  ;  once  they  saw  the  mothers  comely  face  as  she 
stepped  into  the  study  for  a  moment-and  they  saw 
her  bend  an  instant  above  the  man  with  the  book 
then  disappear,  her  song  more  bhthe  and  her  face 
more  radiant  than  before. 

Hattie's  eyes  were  full  of  hunger.     They  lingered 
long  on  the  happy  scene,  taking  in  its  every  detail 
coveting  the  sweet  simplicity. 

"  ^■'",  ^'■'■''^'^  ^^'e'"  have  to  go.  Stephen."  she  said 
presently ;  -  n,  j.^t  h,,e  time  to  get  my  ;rain.  13:;; 
oh  Stephen,  doesn't  it  make  you  envious  ?  Only  it  s 
wicked  to  be  envious,  I  know." 


GATHERING    CLOUDS  295 

"  What, "   her    husband   exclaimed,   ••  envious    of 
what  r  " 

"  Vou  know,  Stephen— oh,  if  wc  only  had  a  ciiurch 
and  a  dear  little  house  like  that— and  everything  they 
have;  isn'r  it  the  loveliest  place  for  children, 
Stephen?"  she  added,  her  eyes  upon  the  ground. 
"  And  on  Sunday,  to  see  them  coming  from  all 
around— not  rich  or  well  dressed  or  anything— but 
true  and  sincere  and  good,  really  good.  And  we 
could  have  the  windows  u^tcn  in  the  church;  and 
n-iaybe  a  little  bu-d  would  fly  in  sometimes— they  used 
to  in  England— and  you  could  smell  the  flowers. 
And  everything  would  be  so  true— so  real.  But  we'll 
have  to  hurry  on,  Stephen.  What  time  will  I  get  to 
Rosehill  ?  " 

Stephen  told  her;  and  in  a  few  minutes  they  were 
at  the  rustic  station.  The  approaching  train  could  be 
already  seen  flying  across  the  verdant  fields. 
"  Good-bye,  Stephen— don't  work  too  hard." 
"  Good-bye,  darling.  Try  and  help  Rube  and 
Bessie  on  a  bit— tell  them  what  good  time  you  and  I 
made.  And  be  back  in  a  week,  remember.  Good- 
bye, Hattie." 


Two  days  later,  a  half-bared  arm  was  flinging  a  sun- 
bonnet  at  the  head  of  the  giant  figure  on  the  verandah 
of  the  old  farmhouse. 

"  Xo,  Reuben,  I  don't  want  it— the  sun  is  almost 
down.  And  I'm  going  all  alone;  I  don't  even  want 
Colhe  with  me.     I'm  going  to  roam  over  some  of  the 


296 


THE    UNDERTOU,' 


scenes  my  h.^band  u.scd  to  v.u  when  he  was  a  boy 

-^  n>not,o,n,toth.koranybodybuth:,!:°' 

iril    d.     .bada.you.Ith.„krdtakeso,ne- 

>ou;'     and  Reubens    au"li  sli<,,>L- fi,    ii 

I'an^Mng  (run,  tl.e  lattice.  '  ^'"'^^'"^ 

••  Tut.  tut.  Reuben  ;  let  nature  hae  its  course      0„lv 

mind   >c.  iasin.-— it"  it   hadn  .    K         t  '"     ^^"'>^ 

hae  had  hm>  at  a'.'  ''"  ^^^  "^'■^'  >'^'  ^^^^"^ 

comeback/         "'^'^"""'^''^^--"-^-v^^^^^^ 

abonf  \?  ""   ^°""^'  ^''"'  ^^""'''^"  ;  ^^t'^PJ'^n  struck  ile 
aboot  the  same  time  ue  did  oorsels  "  H,.  ^  "ck  iic 

lilt,  eveninjjs  ancient  hymn 

•t>     "i^iit,    called    her    to    their   srVlp      Qi,^ 

fn-  voices  ;/',;        f,"  """"''"'^  "'"■  ""•■  "'"*"- 
■n„  loices  tllat  jomed  the  sylvan  lullabv 

and  in  '!  ""'""  '"""^'^  '»'  >  ™ca-g  foo.fall- 

kaped  .:  ,rtr  "'^-  ^'°°''  '-'-^  "-     Ha..ie 

••  Ullcrc     did    you    come    from,    Hiran,  ?      What 


'f^':M''^H\wsmw^^*::'-:\  ^w^^^fMssjji.  ^v  7 


;m£:s^^ 


r 


GATHERING    CLOUDS  597 

brings  you  Iktc?"  she  cried,  and  her  face  is  pallul  in 
Its  aj,'itati'.n. 

"  Don't  be  frij^htcncd.  Hattie_I  st  ran  down 
here  fur  a  l.ttlc  hul.day-hav.n^.  another  look  at  the 
old  scenes  and  face.."  Then  followed  a  more  detaUed 
explanation. 

The  gloom  deepened  about  them  as  they  sat,  still 
talkmg  .ntently.  1  Lutie  ..  pleading  for  something. 
"Oh.  i  .ram,"  she  sa,d,  her  voice  full  of  entreaty, 
I  thought  you  promr.ed  me  before ;  and  I  was  -ci 
tmg  happy  again.  Dunt.  iliram-  I  unplore  j^u. 
dont.  Vouk-nou-I!ovelnm;and.fy,.udowha 
you  say  he'll  be.  u...c-d.     F.r  :ay  sake.  H.ram." 

The  man  s  face  darkened.     <•  I've  got  him  where  I 
want  h.m   ..ou'-and   .f  .t  weren't  f.r  you  I'd  crush 
ii.m   hke  an  egg-shell.     Either  one  of  those  thn.c^s 
would  sett:,  him-ifs  yea,-s  ago  now.  but  I  don't  fo';' 
get.     He  ruined  me.  as  well." 

"  Oh,  Hiram,  i  liram  !     If  God " 

••  And  then  he  dared  to  come  and  preach  the  Gos- 
pel nght  at  my  back  door.  And  the  fool  took  a  hand 
m  w.th  me  at  stocks-stocks  on  margin_at  my  ex- 
pense too  ;  there's  h.s  note  for  what  he  owes  me  too 
bad  that  grace  wouldn't  pay  it_the  kind  he  chatters 
about  from  the  pulpit.  You're  a  fool  to  cry,  Hattie 
— hes  not  worth  it." 

"  He  is,  he  is."  poor  Hattie  cried  dcsperatclv  •  «  I 
know  him  better  than  you  do_and  he  wants  to  do 
nght ;  he  really  does.     And  I  don't  believe  what  you 
say  about  him;  and  even  ifhehad-had-gone  astray 
hes  trying_I  know  he's  trying.     And  we  can  save 


^B&i 


K  '-Jfs^^'  ',^^i 


'm'A^w^ 


398 


THE    UNDERTOIV 


up  and  pay  you  that  money—and  I  believe  in  him-. 
I  love  him  so.  And  you  shan't  ruin  him,  you  said 
before  you  wouldn't.  You  couldn't.  Ill  save  him 
myself— oh,  God,  help  nie." 

Lou-  and  mu.ical,  with  a  wild  melody  of  angui.h 
her    cry  surged    from  her  trembling  lips,  her  fact- 
turned   vistnUly  toward  her  tormentor,  the  bitter  tears 
sanding  on  her  cheeks.     Again  and  again  the  cry 
broke    from    her   lips;    "Poor  Stephen,  pour,  poor 
btephen,"  rocking   to   and   fro   in  her  distress.     A 
shade  of  pity  played  on  Hiram's  face,  nnngl.ng  wit.'i 
the  power  and  passion  that  were  written  there      "  i 
have  your  letter,  I  lattie,"  he  said  at  length.     "  I  have 
It  in  my  pocket.     And  I'll  admit  it  moved  me  a  good 
deal-especially  at  the  close,  where  you  asked  me  not 
to  do  It  If  I  loved  you-if  I  loved  you.     Did  you 
mean  that,  Hattie  ?  " 

Hattie  pondered  a  moment.  "  Mean  it  ?  Yes  of 
course  I  meant  it,"  she  finally  answered,  turning  'and 
looking  full  at  the  strong  face  above  her.  "  You  said 
you  did." 

"  \  es,  by  God,"  he  answered  passionately,  moving 
toward  the  white-robed  figure  beside  him.  She  sprang 
quickly  beyuiid  his  reach. 

"  Don't—you  shan't.  Hiram."  Her  tone  sufficed. 
He  took  his  seat  again.  "  Yes,  you  know  I  love 
you,"  he  continued.  "  I've  always  loved  you— though 
I  didn't  know  it  once— and  I  was  a  fool  in  England  " 
Then  his  voice  grew  softer.  "  Don't  you  love  me  at 
all.  Hattie  ?  Not  the  least  bit  like  long  ago— just  my 
own  place,  Hattie-?"  he  urged  his  t  m  a.  plead 


iWfssj^Mr^mi 


GATHERING   CLOUDS  2^ 

She  glanced  a  moment  at  the  powerful  and  hand- 
some face  turned  doun  upon  her.  Something,  of  the 
old  spell  she  cuiilJ  remember-but  it  wa.  only  a 
memory.  ^ 

"^'''•/^*-^^^'^''^^l"tely...no,H.ram;  Im  all  my 
husband  s-nobody  h.s  any  place  but  Stephen.     And 

io't'ln  ''TJT  !''  '"^'^"  '"^■'  "'^-"'-you  have  no 
rk'.t  to.     N  obud>-  ha.s  any  n^dit,  only  Stephen.     JJut 

>f  you   do.    and   the  girlish   voice  .s  full  of  simple 

earnestness.  ••  ,f  yuu  d...  I  don't  see  how  you  could 

carry  out  your  threat-thafs  what  1  meant.  Hiram." 

break  the  silence. 

Hattie  made  a  quick  movement  of  joy. 
"  What  do  you  mean,  Hiram  ?  "  she  asked  eagerly 
I  mean  what  I  say."  ' 

"Hush    what's  that   moving.  Hiram?    Did  you 
hear  anythmg  ?     r  thought  I  heard  a  noise." 

tie  r"f  .°"!^  '^'  wind-you  can  trust  me.  H,t- 
t  e  wdl  disclose  nothing-I  promise  you.  But 
It  s  only  for  your  sake."  /     •     1  ut 

.ni^^  ^^^  ^,''"  '^'■^^''"^  *=^°^«^  to  her  as  he  spoke  • 
eatnes'    :^•''"^'"^    '°"^^^^    '"   uncontrollable 

leaned?  '  t  '^^  ^"^  *°"^*^^"^  ^^^  ^^eek  .-.  she 
leaped  from  him  to  her  feet. 

.hll'^'f^  ""'•  "'"'"•"  ^'  "^"^  ^  '"°"^-"t  later  as 
She  stood  panting,  her  eyes  burning  in  the  dark 

fnl  n7\''Z  '  ^°"^  '■'""'"•  ""^  "^"'^'^  voice  was 
lull  of  calm  dignity  when  she  answered  • 


300 


THE    UNDERJOIV 


"  Yes,  I'll  forgive  you ;  I'll  forgive  you.  If  you 
never  knew  how  much  I'm  Stephen's,  you  know  it 
now.  And  I  know  you'll  believe  in  him  yet.  I  shall 
never  forget  your  promise.  And— and—we'll  pray 
for  you.     Good-night,  I'm  going  back  to  father's." 

Working  in  strange  emotion  was  the  cruel  face 
that  turned  silently  toward  the  village.  I  Iiram  strode 
.swiftly  on,  his  eyes  upon  the  ground. 

"  By  heaven,"  he  muttered,  "  I  can  crush  him  with- 
out telling  anybody  anything.  He  thinks  every- 
thing's forgotten-but  my  memory's  not  so  short  as 
God's." 

And  his  hand  wandered  toward  his  pocket,  sav- 
agely clutching  at  a  letter  that  he  knew  was  there 
"  I  was  afraid  she'd  want  it  back."  he  mumbled. 

And  through  the  gathered  gloom  a  rustling  form 

flew  quickly  homeward;  and  a  dimpled   hand  was 

holding  a  tiny  cross  tight  against  a  burning  cheek ; 

and  trembling  lips  were  saying  half  aloud  : 

"  Oh,  God,  save   Stephen— save   him   for  me,  oh 
God." 


XXIV 
The    GRIP  of    The    UNDERTOIV 

TH]-:  apartmentii  wliich  Stephen  and  his  wife- 
had  taken  were  more  elaborate  than  those 
h.e  had  occupied  alone.  Vet,  richly  fur- 
nished though  they  were,  they  seemed  desolate 
enough  as  Stephen  sat,  forty-eight  hours  after  his  visit 
to  xMorven.  readnig  a  letter  from  his  wife.  For  he 
was  alone ;  and  he  begrudged  every  hour  that  sep- 
arated him  from  one  in  whom  his  whole  life  was  cen- 
tred now.  Besides,  the  letter  in  his  hand  was  redo- 
lent of  the  sweet  tenderness  that  her  nature  possessed 
in  such  rich  abundance— toward  him  at  least ;  and  he 
smiled  with  happiness  as  he  read  over  again  the  en- 
dearing words. 

Then  he  carelessly  picked  up  another  letter  that 
the  same  mail  had  brought ;  it  was  addressed  to  his 
wife.  lie  examined  it  idly,  wondering  whether  or 
not  he  should  send  it  on.  But  he  noticed  suddenly 
that  it  bore  "  immediate  "  written  over  the  left-hand 
corner.  The  writing  looked  familiar—and  his  curi- 
osity is  aroused.  Undoubtedly  it  is  something  she 
ought  to  know  at  once ;  perhaps  it  has  a  message 
that  should  be  telegraphed.  Besides,  he  feels  sure 
Hattie  would  wish  him  to  open  it ;  he  has  often  told 
her  to  do  the  same  with  his  when  he  was  absent. 


5oa 


THE    UNDERTOIV 


A  momenfs  hesitation;  then  a  quick resolve-and 
he  tears  the  letter  open. 

How  thin  the  veil  between  happiness  and  anguish  r 

piecroTor"^  ''"  r'  ^^^^"^^  "'^^^  •'  -  ^hi'Ta 
and  l.e.  current  flows  on  .n  l^:L^JrX^ 
♦1,  sunlight  never  more.     The  wnfpr 

.r/graTj"^      "  "'"'"  ^■""  '"-'1  '"'  "  «"*  shelter  in 

The  warrant  of  your  doom,  it  is  true  ,vas  signed 
and  sealed  all  the  while ;  but  it  had  ne  e   be  „  "x 

Pie  mo  ""  '''  r  "'^  '"'°""  ■'•  b"'  ""  'ha"  im- 
ple  movement  of  the  linger,  that  rustling  page  th"t 

qu,ck  eternal  flash,  followed  by  the  blackness  of  dirk 
-ess  that  no  earthly  torch  can  banish. 

The  letter  began,  •■  My  darling,"_a„d  Steohen 
3m,led  as  his  eye  fell  upon  .he  word  .  Some  Wer" 
.cal  woman  that's  going  to  tell  her  what  a  g^Cs 
vo,ce  she  has,  he  thought,  turning  the  page  over  to 
b„  *=,^";r""'"-  "=  Sasped  violently,  \is  C 
bounded  t,ll  he  could  hear  it,  and  he  fel  the  sw-IJ 
Starting  on  his  brow      Ti,«    •       .        ^ 'cn  me  s\v..at 

ConlH  >\         ?  ^  signature  was  Hiram's. 

Could  .t  be  a  joke  ?     Yet  it  is  surely  Hiram's  writ- 

from  h       "■'"''  ^"'■^'  ""'  h^^  -°-  thanonenote 
rom  h.n.  remuK.mg  him  of  payments  long  past  due 

Why  cTn  he  n  .  .  T"  °"^  '"^  ^^^-    '-^  desk. 
Why  can  he  not  find  u?     And  why  must  his  hand 


•The  GRIP  of  The  UNDERTOW    30^ 

shake  so?  He  has  it  now_no.  it's  the  wrong  one- 
this  IS  it-and  in  a  moment  the  object  of  his  search 
IS  shaking  in  his  hand.  Stern,  contemptuous,  threat- 
ening, he  had  remembered  it  to  be— but  its  fangs  are 
drawn  now ;  all  its  poison  is  dead  and  gone.  Into 
msignificance  and  contempt  all  its  former  dread  has 
fallen-a  veriest  trifle,  as  he  holds  the  two  together  • 
and  he  is  conscious,  even  amid  his  anguish,  of  a  swifi 
worider  why  the  paltry  thing  had  ever  troubled  him. 
tor  the  writing  is  the  same. 

'•  '  have  thought  it  over,"  the  letter  said  among 
other  things,  -  and  I  believe  you  are  right  about  your 
letter  to  me.     Its  a  little  dangerous,  as  you  said ;  for 
If  anything  should  happen  to  me,  there's  no  telling 
whose  hands  your  letter  would  fall  into.     But  I  would 
sooner  burn  up  the  original  of  the  Gospels  than  des- 
troy one  of  your  letters^so  I  return  it  to  you  to  do 
what  you  think  best  with  it.     I'm  only  sending  the 
nsky  part_I  have  torn  it  off,  for  I  want  to  keep  the 
rest.     I  think   you  said  the  night  before   last  (oh 
Hattie,  I  shall  never  forget  that  night),  that  ycM 
hkely  be  home  to-morrow.     You  ought  to  get  '  >,s 
then  ;  and  anyhow,  S will  most  likely  be  out  vis- 
iting  when    this    letter   is    delivered.     So    it   ought 
to    be    all    right.     Ill    drop  around    soon.     Mean- 
time     .     .     ." 

Where  is  her  letter  to  him-or  the  fragment  of  it 
that  he  speaks  of?     He  tears  the  envelope  apart 
shaking  It  over  the   floor-but  it  docs   not  appear 
Ah,  here  it  is,  lying  at  his  feet !     He  snatches  at  it— 
but  It  IS  hers  to  him  and  his  eyes  fall  upon  a  tender 


304 


THE    UNDERTOIV 


phrase  as  he  fl.ngs  :t  from  lum,  a  half  cry  half  ..h 
breakmg  from  h.  l.ps.  What  is  that  hiJe  K  ^' 
yonder  ?     His  fingers  grope  for  it  •  ^  "^ 

famihar  hand-and   h,  T  '  ^^"" ''^''^"g"'^-^'^  the 

I^i.  "J"^-and   he  knows  that  his  fate  is  thero 

His  eyes  burn  so  that  he  can  scarcely  read      T 
>ny  P.ece  of  paper  and  he  can  see  ^e  t  has  b"  ' 
torn  from  the  rest.  ^^  '^^^" 

know  what  I  mean  H,o  understand,  you 

stand  ■•  '    '°"^'^  "°  ^"^^  '^l^-  ^vould  under- 

other,  looks  out  on  the  bufy  street  '/°T  '"  "'^ 
jostling  throng,  marvels  a^  he  e  anTif^ "' " ''' 
round  his  hat,  smirking.  .  "° '^""  ""  "a'^n  passing 
factore      Persni„?      ^  unnn.ng  at  his  bene- 

-he  wontn     'T"'u'  "=*  ■="  "'^  '"-head 

-*es ;  atl-tt  Jorth^Lte^rk*??" 
alone,  his  life's  treasure  fill.n  ,  !i  t'         '  ''"P='=ss, 

stone  floor,  never  rblreparr^d'  '"''''"''  ""  '"'' 

*tlb:'thri:r;rb::r"f *:  '= "t  *™'"«  "- 

to  him  of  success  I  1,!        ^■''atover  hfe  nay  bring 
ship  or  travel  „    °' '"^P'"^^  °'  Pl<^asure  or  friend- 

anbi.^rn'sriuir:"""'"'""-'''-"^-^. 

thiJefn'Zr^'a'  """1.  everybody  ,oves_that 

.trough  hirmtrr:i;;''itrarc"'r.^'°"':; 

"b    its  attack   again  and 


The  GRIP  of  The   U N D E R  J Q  IV    50^ 
again,  its  channel  smoother  with  each  return      Tiiat 
he  has  faded  .n  tiie  chiefest  thin.c;  of  all,  the  part  on 
which  ail  uepend.,  that  he  is  uounded  for  life  in  the 
very  heart  of  hua  ;  this,  :n  shadowy  outline,  ^mous 
clearer  and  clearer  still.     That  there  can  be  nu  real 
hcahng;  that  to-morrow,  and  the  day  after,  and  the 
J^ay  after  that,  and  all  the  days,  can  never  ,ue  lum 
back  what  he  had  before.     That  other  men  tvHl  love 
and  marr>-  and  be  happy  and  keep  the.r  happ.ncss 
fresh  and  pure  to  the  Ust ;  but  h>s  chance  is  past,  his 
joy  IS  dead,  his  life,  his  real  life  .s  done ;  and  for  him 
nothmg  now  but  the  ashes  of  disappomtment  and  the 
lash  of  memory  ;  all  these  pledges  of  his  doom  pass 
one  by  one  before  his  eyes. 

The  winds  begin  to  nsc  within  ;  and  soon  they  are 
stormmg  m  great  gusts  about  his  heart 

spell  fom  the  fascmafon  of  her  beauty  and  of  what 
he  haa  thought  was  unmixed  purity  and  grace  He 
must  break  loose  from  the  torture  of  love  tt  .ny  cost 

-but  he  W.11  refuse  to  suffer.  This  he  boisterously 
r  peats;  th.s  au.^al  cataract  over  wh.ch  he  ha^ 
pungcd  so  suddenly  may  tear  h.s  treasure  from  him', 
but  ,t  shall  not  leave  him  drenched  and  trembhn^ 
always.     He  will  take  life  up  again,  love  alone  left  out'' 

lenly ,  for  a  knock  at  the  door  calls  him  to  the  wait- 
ing meal. 

"Excuse  me."  he  calls  to  the  receding  messenger. 
I  have  changed  my  mind     I'll  be  down  direcll;..'' 


3o6 


THE    UNDERTOIV 


\i'    l| 


f.h. 


He  locks  his  door  behind  him.  reopened  ten  or  fif- 
teen  minutes  later  as  the  landlady  says  to  the  others 
below : 

"  I  never  seen  Mr.  Wishart  so  noisy  and  funny  be- 
fore He  just  seemed  sot  on  makin'  us  all  lau-h  •  he 
wouldn  t  take  no  dinner  himself  and  he  wouldn't  let 
us  eat  our  actuals  neither-hc's  a  funny  man  " 

Meanwhile  their  entertainer  was  restored  to  the 
suspended  storm.  His  former  vows  were  violently 
renewed.  He  would  give  himself  to  his  work,  his 
books,  his  profession,  and  he  would  find  his  happi- 
ness there-th  us  ran  his  resolve  of  healing.  He 
would  rise  higher  and  higher-and  the  incLsing 
gulf  would  be  her  punishment. 

Deep  bitterness  soon  mingled  itself  with  his  tum- 
bling thoughts  ;  bitterness  and  self-pity,  that  go  ever 
hand  m  hand.     She  is  not  worthy  of  me.  he  thought 
-she  ,s  not  worthy  of  me  or  of  my  love.     And  the 
opinion  p.eased  him  well.     Strange,  passing  strange, 
he  reflected,  that  this  should  be  her  return  for  all  his 
devotion,  his  fondness,  almost  idolatry,  pouring  its 
love  before  her  as  he  had,  ever  since  that  far-off  pic- 
nic day  that  now  danced  before  him  in  its  shroud 
c;.n  'T  "^^"'■'^"^^^  toward  God  comes  over  him. 
Stil  walking,  his  eyes  fall  on  his  half-written  sermon 
on  the  desk.     He  picks  it  up_how  different  life  was 
when  I  wrote  those  words,  he  murmured.     Then  he 
reads  the  te.xt.     .«  Others  w-ere  tortured,  not  accept- 
.ng  deliverance,  that  they  might  obtain  a  better  res- 
urrection. 

He  tears  the  sheets  in  two,  flinging  them  into  the 


«s»i'~»'i:.f-^^ 


:SB»»SSSS:itS^Kifi 


■The  GRIP  of  The  UNDERTOW    yyj 

basket  at  his  side.  Then  he  seems  to  relent.  Yet 
why  has  this  befallen  him.  il  God  is  just?  The  old 
instmct  for  prayer  returns. 

"Oh  God."  he  mumbles,  bending  above  a  couch, 
why  hast  Thou  dealt  thus  with  me  ?  Thy  ways  are 
mysterious  indeed.  Can  it  be  that  whom  Thou  lov- 
est  Thou  chastenost-oh,  God.  have  mercy  on  her  " 
Kising.  he  turns  to  the  basket  and  picks  up  the 
scattered  sheets  of  his  discourse,  searching  for  a  par- 
agraph he  could  vaguely  remember  writing.  Here 
It  IS : 

"  The  Heavenly  Gardener  knows  best,  my  breth- 
ren vvhich  plants  to  put  in  the  sunshine,  and  which 
w.thin  the  shade ;  for  some  flower  best  in  the  sun- 
shine,  but  others  amid  darksome  shadows.  There- 
fore accept  sorrow  with  reverent  curiosity,  even  with 
subdued  and  submissive  joy," 

He  pondered  long  upon  the  words;  this  must  be 
the   purpose   of    this   mysterious    dispensation-he 
could  conceive  no  other   explanation.     Yet,  as  he 
pondered,  the  malproportion  of  it  grew  upon  him  till 
his  spirit  was  aflame  again.     While  he  was  musing 
the  fire  burned;  for  his  musing  was  of  the  final  and 
irreparable    nature    of   his  sorrow.     This    consoling 
sentiment  w,y  '.st  a  week  ;  this  sorrow  for  a  lifetime. 
IhisMs  not  a  tunnel,  he  muses,  with  heahng  light  be- 
yond ;  but  a  tomb,  where  his  dead  hopes  and  he  must 
he  together. 

A  rap  at  the  door  suddenly  interrupted  him 
"  If  you  please.  Mr.  Wishart,  there's  a  couple  of 
people  wants  to  see  you,"  his  landlady  announced. 


308 


•THE    UNDERTOIV 


t\ 


"The  man  said  as  it  uas  your  brother  and  Miss  Bur- 
nttt      \\  ,11  you  sec  them  in  tlic  parlour,  sir?" 

"  ^u.    btcphcn  answered,  "  I'll  be  obli^^ed  if  you'll 
show  them  up  here."  ^>  '^  "  }  ou  ii 

He  struggled  for  the  control  he  knew  he  would  re- 
was  lull  ol  tranquil  welcome. 

don  t  know  winch  I'm  gladdest  to  see.     Come  a.  .y 
in  ,  this  IS  a  pleasant  surprise  " 

dently  restless  and  embarrassed. 

"What  makes  you  so  serious,  Rube?"  Stephen 
feU  constramed  to  ask  after  a  brief  and  solemn  silence 

\  ou  look  as  if  you'd  lost  your  best  friend.  Noth- 
ing the  matter  at  the  farm,  I  hope  ?  " 

Reuben's  eyes  were  still  upon  the  ground 

"  Tell  him,  Reuben,"  Bessie  faltered 

Then  the  earnest   eyes   lifted  themselves  to  Ste- 

Bess)e  andT'''  '  ^'^  ^'^'  -on^^^^m^  to  tell  you. 

Bessie  and  I  came  up  to  the  city  to  do  a  little-a  little 

1  opp.ng,"  Reuben  flushing  shyly  as  he  spoke.  ••  and 

I  honestly  thought  I  ought  to  tell  you  what  she  told 

cruel-but  I  do  ,t  because  I  love  you,  and—" 

"  What  can  you  mean.  Rube?     Don't  keep  me  in 
sspense      Anything   about   money   matters"     nd 

e^u^raUadr   '^"""   ''''   "   '"   '^^   '^'^ 


f 

i 


•The  GRIP  oj   The   U N b  E R  7 O  W    309 

"  Nu,  Steve,  I  wish  It  was  ;  no,  it's  about— if.-,  about 
Hattie,  Steve.  About  something  BesMe  saw;  .lie 
happened  to  be  in  that  su-ar-bush  la.-,t  Wediie.Mlay 
night,  just  about  dark,  and  she  saw  llattie— and  she 
was  talking  to — to " 

"  To  wiioni,"  Stejjlien  urged,  leaning  over,  "  to 
whom  was  i  1  attic  talkiiu'  ?  " 

"To  Hiram,  Steve;  to  Hiram  Barker,"  and  even 
Reuben  started  as  he  .>aw  tlie  pallor  of  death  lling  ,15 
sheet  over  Steijlien's  face. 

iJessie  sat,  shaking  like  a  leaf,  while  Reuben'.,  voice, 
hoarsely  whi.^pcrip.g.  told  his  tale  as  gently  and  hope- 
fully as  he  could,  the  strong  hps  quivering  with  love 
and  sympathy  as  he  watched  his  brother'.,  anguish. 

It  was  soon  over:  "But  about  that  ia.t  thing, 
Steve,  Bessie  says  I  lattie  was  trying  to  resist.  I  don^'t 
blame  Hattie  at  all.  Steve.  And  oh,  Steve,  it's  hard 
to  tell  you;  but  I  think  you  ought  to  get  her  home 
at  once.  And  then  I  thought  you  could  protect  her 
for  the  future.  Don't  let  her  ever  meet  that  man 
again  ;  I  know  Hiram  hates  you,  and  I  beUeve  he'd 
like  to  wreck  your  life  if  he  could,  Steve." 

There  was  a  long  silence,  Stephen's  face  workin- 
in  a  shght  movement  as  he  looked  far  out  of  the 
window.  Grief,  and  j^ride,  were  both  v::,ible  there. 
In  a  moment  he  stepped  to  his  desk,  thrust  a  couple 
of  letters  within  it  and  turned  the  key. 

"  You  don't  mistrust  my  wife  ?  "  he  asked  in  a 
rather  trembling  voice  as  he  turned  about.  "  Hat- 
tie's  all  riglit.  you  know,"  he  said,  looking  appcaiingly 
at  Reuben. 


310 


THE   UNDERTOH^ 


h  i 


"f  4 


"  You're  right  she  is."  and  Reuben's  voice  is  shak 
•ng  more  than  Stephen's.  "Good  for  you.  Steve- 
.ts  because  she's  all  right  that  I  wanted  you  to  save 
ncr.     V\  hy,  Jiessie,  where  arc  you  going  ?  " 

"  I  have  to  go.  Kubc-I've  got  an  engagement  at 
the  dressmakers.  Please  don't  ask  n>c  to  stay; 
Steve  11  want  to  see  you  alone."  and  as  she  reached 
the  door,  she  cast  backward  at  the  broken  nan  a 
glance  that  was  full  of  pity  and  noble  yearning  and 

s.ncenty  of  friendship,  such  as  had  not  been  there 
lor  years. 

As  Reuben  returned  from  seeing  her  to  the  door 
he  saw  h.s  brother  sitting  where  he  had  left  him.  his' 
face  buned  m  h.s  hands  ;  but  now  his  breast  is  heav- 
ing heavdy.  his  whole  frame  quivering  with  his  lonely 
gnef,  while  the  tears  crept  slowly  down,  visible  be- 
tween the  parted  fingers. 

Stooping  with  almost  a  woman's  tenderness, 
Reuben  laid  his  arms  about  his  brother,  caressing 
inm  in  the  strong  gentleness  of  his  heart.  No  word 
he  spoke,  lingering  thus  till  the  gust  of  grief  was 
P^t     Then  they  sat  long  together,  talking  of  many 

'•  Steve,"  Reuben  said  at  length. "  I've  got  to  go- 
but  I  want  to  speak  to  you  about  something  else 
It  s  something  that's  been  bothering  me  a  good  deal 
—and  It  s  about  you.  old  fellow." 

"  About  me  ?  "  Stephen  responded  wearily.  ««  What 
have  you  been  hearing  about  me  ?  "  His  voice  was 
unnaturally  calm.  For  his  thought  was  otherwhere, 
busy  with  those  letters  in  his  desk  of  which  Reuben 


^>y:*- 


7he  GRIP  of  The   UNDER701V    311 

knew  nothing  ;  making  up  tlic  dread  account  of  evi- 
dence, the  letters  and  the  news  tliat  Reuben  f'toiight, 
each  one  such  a  dreadful  confirmation  of  the  other. 

"  Weil,  Steve,  I  may  as  well  tell  you  strai^'ht. 
They  say  it's  rumoured  all  around  the  city— and  we've 
heard  it  even  where  we  live— that  you're  in  debt. 
And,  of  cour-^e,  Steve,  it's  bound  to  do  you  a  lot  of 
harm  ;  it  is  diMiiL;  you  harm — and  I'm  so  afraid  father 
might  hear  ot   it,  and  it  would  finish  hmi,  I  know." 

"  l-"at!-,.:r  doesn't  know  anything  about  it,  then, 
does  he?"  Stephen  interrupted  earnestly. 

"Not  a  thmg;  he  thinks  you're  the  pride  of 
Hamilton.  Ikit  I'll  tell  you  what  I  came  for,  Steve. 
I  want  to  help  you,  and  if  I  only  knew  how " 

"  Oh,  Rube,"  and  the  moisture  is  gathering  in 
Stephen's  eyes,  "  I  wish  to  God  I  were  worthy  of 
you— I'll  tell  you  who  my  creditors  are.  Rube,  and 
how  much  I  owe— and  everything.  Hiram,  of 
course " 

But  Reuben  stopped  him  imperiously.  "  I  won't 
have  it,  Steve,  I  won't  have  it ;  it's  no  business  of 
mine  who  your  creditors  are— I  knew  you  owed 
Hiram.  But  all  I  want  to  know  is  how  much  it  is. 
I'm  going  to  pay  it,  Steve." 

The  giant-framed,  giant-hearted  brother  sa'  look- 
ing shyly  about  the  room,  now  and  then  turning  his 
kindly  eyes  full  on  his  unhappy  brother. 

Distracted   the  latter   was    in   verj    truth,   as  the 

thought  of  all   Reuben  had  been  to'him,  all  he  still 

wished  to  be,  passed  before  him.     And  his  requital ! 

"  But  Rube,  you  know— you  know  I've  never  paid 


^ 


312 


THE    UNDERTOIV 


ii» 


« 


back  tliat  money  father  got  from  Scotland.  And 
I  vo  no  claim  on  the  farm  o.  any  of  its  product—my 
sliare  on  t!ie  farm  u  ent  for  my  education ;  and  a  sad 
lot  of  diogm-  and  delving  you  and  pnnr  father  had 
to  do  to  finish  it.  Oh,  Rube.  I  cant-1  can't  take 
money  from  you,  Rube." 

Retibens  face  is  grave.  "  Now  look  here.  Steve 
you  don^t  u-ant  to  hurt  me.  do  you?  Now  don't.' 
don  t.  old  fellow.  I'm  so  happy  every  other  way- 
no  man  ever  was  so  happy;  and  it'll  spoil  everything 
for  me  and  Ikssie  if  you  won't  let  us  help  You'll 
take  ,t  for  Hessie's  sake.  Steve-anil  mine.  too.  Now 
tell  me_don't  say  anything,  only  just  tell  me  how 
much  It  IS,  how  much  will  make  you  all  clear." 

Stephen  was  bended  over  in  his  chair,  his  face 
hidden.  Reubens  heavy  hand,  light  as  a  woman's 
now.  went  lorth  to  his  shoulder. 

"Tell  me.  Steve ;  I've  got  the  money  right  in  my 
pocket."  ' 

S.lence  reigns  a  while  ;  then  Stephen  lifts  his  worn 
face  and  his  eyes  fall  on  his  brother  with  a  glow  of 
fondness  Reuben  had  never  seen  before.  "  I  owe 
tvventy-scven  hundred  dollars  altogether,"  he  said  in 
a  low  despairing  voice. 

Reuben's  hand  is  already  in  the  breast  poclcet  of 
ills  coat,  no  sign  of  hesitation  or  even  of  surprise  ap- 
p    iring.  ^  ^ 

"I've  got  more  than  that."  he  said  calmly,  "  I  got 
It  that  night  I  went  to  meet  the  man  from  Cleveland 
—the  night  you  walked  home  with  Bessie,  you  re- 
member."    He  is  opening  the  wallet  carefully,  and 


The  GRIP  of  The   UNDFRTOir    ?ij 

docs  not  sec  tlic  ashy  uavc  tliat  dr.lt,  across  Ins 
brothers  face,  knows  nothin-  c-  the  wild  .nitcry  in 
tlie  hunted  heart  beside  him. 

••  Shut  that  wind.)w.  Steve—draughts  are  danger- 
ous when  youre  counting  bills,"  and  he  smiled  to 
relieve  the  nbarrassment  he  feared  his  brother  felt 
"  Yes.  I  got  it  that  night;  and  that  was  only  for  one 
of  the  wells,  for  an  interest  in  one.  And  I  drew  the 
whole  amount  t.)-day,  so  I'd  be  sure  to  have  enough. 

•     •     •     I  think    that's    right.  Steve— you   count   it 
and  see." 

^    Reuben  rose  after  a  few  minutes,  picking  up  his 

t  and  movmg  toward  the  door. 

"Hold  on.  Reuben,  hold  on-IVe  ju.st  fini.>hed. 
Kube,  you've  make  a  mistake— there's  three  thousand 
here.     Rube,  hold  on.  I  say,  Rube !  " 

But  he  hears  the  door  opening  below  and  a  joyful 
voice  calls  up  : 

"  You  never  were  any  good  at  arithmetic,  Steve- 
good-bye." 


XXV 

ASHES   On    The    HEARTH 

THE  evening  was  spent  in  torpor.  A  liasty 
note— with  its  glad  enclosure— liurricdly 
despatched  to  his  arch-creditor  ;  a  brief  and 
portentous  telegram  bidding  his  wife  return  at  once, 
were  all  that  broke  the  drear  monotony.  The  night 
was  passed  in  bitter  musings,  falling  now  and  then 
into  troubled  slumber,  waking  in  feverish  agitation. 
Broken  by  the  night,  the  morning  found  him  less  able 
to  resist  the  torment.  The  sense  of  wrong  that  had 
been  done  him  returned  v.ith  greater  vividness  than 
before.  He  sought  feebly  to  resist  the  bitterness  that 
kept  gathering  in  his  heart — but  in  vain. 

Hattie's  train  was  due  in  a  couple  of  hours,  and 
Stephen  gave  himself  anew  to  the  accursed  letters. 
Their  very  touch  wrung  him  with  an  increasing  pain  ; 
but  their  cruel  fascination  seemed  to  grow. 

He  is  sitting,  wondering  how  he  shall  begin  with 
Hattie,  when  a  servant  announces  that  Father 
O'Rourke  has  called  ;  and  a  moment  later  the  well- 
loved  priest  is  sitting  at  his  side. 

But  his  demeanour  is  marked  by  a  seriousness  Ste- 
phen has  never  previously  observed.  Without  pre- 
liminary, he  drew  his  chair  close  to  the  minister's. 

"  I've  got  bad  news  for  you,  my  boy.  It's  about 
one  of  my  parishioners— he  means  mischief  for  you, 

314 


ASHES   On    7 he    HEARTH  ;is 

It's  Hiram  Barker;  hc'^-  entered  suita-ainst  you,  and 
Its  goni-  to  go  hard,  I'm  afraid.  And  1  want  to  .sec 
il  I  can't  help  you." 

Then  the  priest  ■  u  ml...  dpl.-ils,  telhng  of  Hi- 
ram s  evident  purpos  .  )p  ,  ,;ia  \v.m.  "  It's  a  -ambhn- 
debt,  he  says-gambrL,  in  .t  jcf  ,.  And  he  >een" 
dehgiited  to  deatli  about  ii.  ^ow  I  haven't  got 
mucii— I'm  only  a  poor  pne.,t-but  you  can  hav^  it 
all.  Only  Barker  nm.t  never  know  it,  mind.  And 
sure,  you  can  borrow  tiie  rest,"  he  urged. 

Forgetting  for  the  moment  all  other  troubles,  Ste- 
phen joyfully  informed  his  friend  of  what  had' hap- 
pened;  of  Reuben's  visit,.,*  his  generous  gift,  of  the 
letter  that  had  been  sent  to  Hiram  paying  his  claim 
in  full. 

"  Howly  Moses,"  cried  the  delighted  priest,  "  why 
the  divil  didn't  you  tell  me  tiiat  before  ^  That'<  a 
darhnt  av  a  brother  you've  got;  give  him  an  owld 
priest's  benediction  and  tell  him  I'll  dance  at  his  wed- 
din'  and  cry  at  his  wake.  And  I'll  kiss  his  broide  for 
him,  begorra— and  drink  both  their  hilths  wrI  a  wee 
drap  o'  the  cratur  into  the  bargain.  Now  Ml  ha^•e  to 
run  away.  Good  bye  and  God  bless  you,  m>-  bo)-  ' 
And  the  loving-hearted  priest  went  on  his  way  re- 
joicing. 

The  trembling  hours  have  passed  and  Stephen  is 
waiting  for  his  wife.  As  he  hears  the  thunder  of  the 
approaching  train  he  tries  in  vain  to  control  himself. 
His  liand  is  shaking  violently  as  he  holds  it  to  his 
eyes,  scanning  the  faces  of  the  alighting  passengers. 

There  she  is  now.  tripping  merrily  along  the  plat- 


316 


THE    UNDERTOiV 


form,  slancin-  this  way  and  that  with  eager  eyes; 
and  Stephen  marvels  as  he  notes  the  unconscious  airi 
strangely  foreign  to  all  that  has  been  so  bitterly  re- 
vealed. In  a  moment  her  gaze  falls  on  her  husband, 
and  with  a  quick  cry  of  joy  she  runs  impulsively 
tou-ard  hun.  J  ler  hands  are  full  of  h.tle  parcels,  del- 
icacies from  the  farm  with  which  kind  hands  have 
laden  her,  so  she  can  but  turn  her  lips  up  to  his  face, 
waitnig  to  be  kissed. 

Stephen's  cold  and  repeH-nt  gaze  meets  her  loving 
eyes,  and  he  turns  his  che  •  to  her,  which  the  fra- 
grant hps,  pallid  now,  touch  in  quivering  wonder. 

"  Stephen  darling,  what's  the  matter  ?  "  she  mur- 
mured, glancing  quickly  around  at  the  hurrying 
throng  ;  "  ".hat  makes  you  look  that  way,  Stephen?  ' 
the  wondering  eyes  looking  out  through  gathering 
mist.  ** 

Stephen  was  silent,  looking  sternly  down  at  her. 
"  I  guess  you  know,"  he  said  meaningly ;  "  let  us  go 
home." 

Hattie's  cry  of  protest  and  amazement  was  stifled 
as  they  hurried  toward  a  cab,  which  they  entered  as 
Stephen  said  :—"  Don't  speak  to  me  now;  let  us  have 
silence  till  we  get  home." 

Dread  is  the  hour  when  husband  and  wife  stand 
alone  and  look  into  each  other's  faces,  the  one  on 
trial  for  life's  honour,  both  on  trial  for  life  itself.  Cru- 
elty and  piteous  appeal,  bitter  censure  and  wistful 
pleading,  angry  strength  and  crying  helplessness  ;  all 
these  belong  to  that  grim  tribunal.     And  happiness 


ASHFS    On    The    HEARTH  317 

girded  and  sandaled,  staff  in  Iiand,  bid.s  her  (jld-tinie 
Iricnda  louk  tiicir  last  on  her  departui<;  tace. 

/^U  of  these  were  gathered  together ;  and  fear  was 
there,  and  love,  pleading  tiiat  the  past  be  called  in 
witness;  and  faith,  wounded,  but  struggimg  hard  to 
speak;  and  hope,  most  pitiful  of  all,  fighting  for  he- 
life,  crying  for  the  portion  she  would  not  be  denied. 
Like  wandered  things  on  some  bleak  hillside,  these 
latter  two  witlistood  as  best  they  could  the  cruel 
storm,  shuddering  now  and  then  before  its  lightning, 
huddling  together  in  the  pelting  rain. 

The  violence  of  it  all  is  partly  spent,  Stephen 
standing  apart,  the  fierce  flow  of  utterance  checked 
for  a  moment,  the  fatal  letters  crumpled  in  his  hand. 
Hattie  is  trying  pitifully  to  come  nearer  to  him,  stretch- 
ing out  her  hands  in  pleading. 

"  Oh,  Stephen,  forgive  me  if  I  have  done  wrong. 
I  didn't  mean  to— r--  '  knows  I  didn't  mean  to.  ''l 
have  explained  w,  ■  letter  meant ;  surely,  I  have 

explained    it,   Step  And— about    th^    other— 

about— the  woods,  he  did,  he  did  do  what  you  say. 
But  I  couldn't  hell)  him— and  I  thought  of  you  at 
once,  darling;  I  was  thinking  all  the  time  of  those 
other  woods,  that  picnic  day— and  I  never  loved  you 
more  than  then." 

He  flung  some  word  of  contempt  concerning  her 
explanations. 

"  If  I  had  acted  as  you  have  acted,"  he  said,  the 
sense  of  injury  growing  on  him  as  he  spoke,  "I 
would  tell  tlie  very  same  story  that  you  tell— any  one 


•litekl..li: 


318 


THE    UNDERTOIV 


who  would  do  the  one  would  do  the   other.     And 
why  shouldn't  they?" 

He  looked  keenly  at  her  a  moment,  then  thrust  a 
hcrce  question  from  which  she  recoileJ  as  though  she 
had  been  struck. 

"  You  can  answer  or  not,  just  as  you  please."  he 

ncd  h,y;..i  can't  force  your  answer.  ^  suppose 

1 11  g'.  to  my  grave  with   this   cloud  of  doubt  about 

rne     he  went  on  bitterly.  -.  but  theres  one  thing  I'll 

dl  you     I  d  sooner  be  ,n  my  place  than  yours.     I'd 

1  an  ha  "t^  "'  -S-^h.  and  have  a  clear  conscience 

than  have  the  remorse  you'll  have  10  feel.     U  I  have 

bear  It.     he   exclaimed,  walking   up  and    down    the 
room. 

"  Oh,  Stephen,"  she  moaned,  -.  even  if  I  had-even 
.flhad  do.e  wrong;  and  perha(,s  I  did-but  I  didn't 
mean  to.     But  even  if      had.  .Stephen,  couldn't  you 
forgive  me  ^     I  laven't  >  ou  ever  done  any  wrong  too 
Stephen-not   now  or  nearly  nou-but  someuLre' 
perhaps,  sometime,  can't  you  remember  feclin<^  tiiat 
we    are    all    liable    to    do    wrong   sometimes-look. 
Stephen,  look.  ' 

she  holds  ,n  her  hand,  smoothing  it  tenderly  upon 
her  lap.  a  tiny  garment,  the  bodkin  still  entangled 
-here  she  had  left  it-one  of  those  unstained  gar 
men ts.holy  with  the  fragrance  of  new-born  reverence 
ana  love,  a  secret  that  only  God,  and  the  mother  heart, 
and  the  oncoming  pilgrim,  are  privileged  to  share 
bee.  Stephen,  see,"  she  sobbed,  while  the  tears 


Vv 


ASHES   On    The    HEARTH  319 

fell  fast ;  "  this  is  what  I  was  working  on  when 
I  was  in  the  country.  And  I  was  so  hapj)y_ 
oh,  darUng,  I  was  so  happy,"  she  cried,  clasping 
it  to  the  hungry  bosom  in  a  passion  of  tears; 
"  and  I  sang  over  it,  and  prayed  over  it— and  you: 
face  was  before  me  all  the  time— I  kept  thinking  of 
you,  Stephen,  all  the  time.  I  did  it  on  purpose, 
Stephen,  because— because — I  was  your  wife;  and 
because  I  wanted,  I  wanted  it  to — oh,  Stephen,  you 
know  what  I  wanted."  And  the  sweet  face,  suffused 
with  tears,  pleading  with  pitiful  entreat)-,  is  turned 
upward  as  the  trLMnbling  girl  rises  quickly  to  her  feet. 
Still  holding  the  dainty  fabric,  her  hands  outstretched, 
she  tries  again  to  come  to  him.  But  he  moves  aside 
and  resolutely  draws  his  chair  up  to  the  de.-,k. 

"  Don't,  Hattie,  don't,"  he  said  sternly,  a  wave  of 
tenderness  sweeping  across  his  face  ;  "  don't  mak  :  it 
harder  for  us  both.  This  only  adds  to  the  curse  that 
must  blight  our  lives  ;  anotlier  will  have  to  share  it 
with  us,  the  innocent  suffering  for  the  guilty." 

Then  the  poor  broken  thing  crept  away  into  the 
shadow  that  seemed  to  hem  her  in  on  every  hand. 

In  a  numb  and  lifeless  way  he  gave  himself  through 
the  day  to  the  work  in  which  he  was  to  find  his  solace. 
Once  or  twice  the  impulse  seized  him  to  take  her 
again  to  his  heart,  to  forgive  all  the  wrong  that  she 
had  done  him,  to  bow  wiili  her  in  prayer,  aiul  begin 
all  over  again  the  life  that  had  till  yesterday  promised 
so  much  of  happiacsG  to  them  both.  But  the  old 
maddening  sense  of  injury  returned  with  augmented 
force;  nnd  he  felt  that  the  only  just  course  before 


'20 


THE    UNDERTOiV 


God  and  man  was  that  their  lives,  even  if  spent  to- 
gether, must  lienceforth  be  hvcd  apart. 

Once  he  arose  and  went  mto  the  room  where  she 
Jay  flung  upon  the  bed,  h.s  purpose  fruitless  tliough 
|t  was  to  msist  on  her  going  down  to  the  belated 
meal  that  was  waiting  for  them  both.  The  sun  was 
settmg,  the  long  day  nearly  past. 

"  Stephen,!- she  "^"'"^"'"^d  faintly,  her  face  almost 
stay  with  you,  Stephen  ?  " 

A  long  silenc.     -  Yes.  I'm  going  to.     We  must 
carry  our  secret  m  our  hearts."     Then  he  went  out 
A  couple  of  hours  later  a  faint  voice  called  h.m. 
Stephen,  Stephen  dear." 

"What   is   ,t  ?  '■  he  answered,  holding  the  door 
partly  open. 

"It's  dark,  Stephen-aren't  you  coming?     Ifs  so 
dark  and  I'm  all  alone-and  afraid.    Come.  Stephen." 
She  hears  him  sigh,  but  the  door  is  closed 

..^T^'u,^""'  ^°''  ^y  °"  •"-Sing  feet  and  the 
same  trembling  voice  i^  heard. 

"  Stephen,  oh.  Stephen  " 

"What  is  it.  Hattie  ?  "  the  door  slightly  opened 
agam.  * 

"Won't  you  say  good-night  to  mc.  Stephen  ?     I 

can  t  sleep.     Stephen,  won't  you  have  a  httle  prayer 

w.th  me  ?     It  might  help  us.  dear.     I'm  so  lonely  " 

Good-night,"  and  his  voice  .s  trembluig  ;  -  I  have 

Sen"  ""  '"^  aP-t-apart,  like  other  things 

Then  he  closes  the  door  again  gently,  wondering  at 


ASHES    On    The    HEARTH 


«i 


the  madness  that  starts  in  his  brain  at  the  sound  of 
the  distant  sobbing.  For  hfe  hatii  no  trailed)-  and 
toiturc  Uko  love,  at  anger's  bidding,  playing  the  alien 
part  of  hate. 

liy  and  by  he  falls  into  a  restless  sleep.  Sudd.M'.y 
he  awakes,  helples..  before  the  storm  that  has  taken 
advantage  of  his  slumber,  brewing  in  the  silent  dark. 
The  clock  strikes  two,  lingering  heavily  on  the 
strokes.  He  arises,  groping  through  the  gloom, 
fumbling  f(jr  the  door.  She  is  on  her  elbow,  her  sleej)- 
less  eyes  fixed  upon  the  opening  door,  her  heart  wild 
with  the  uncertainty  of  what  it  means. 

He  stood  at  the  threshold,  his  eyes  blazing  in  the 
dark,  his  parched  lips  hurling  the  delirious  words  that 
he  had  kept  at  bay  during  the  waking  hours,  but 
which  had  crept  to  his  tongue  while  he  slept,  the  very 
dew  of  the  darkness  that  brooded  in  his  heart. 

Then  he  closed  the  door,  retracing  his  steps  to  the 
couch  from  which  he  rose.  His  anguish  is  com- 
plete ;  the  corpse  of  joy,  he  knows,  is  bedfellow  to 
them  both.  And  the  deathlike  sleep  that  so  often 
waits  on  anguish  takes  him  to  her  bosom,  a^  the  ocean 
takes  ihe  hamniocked  shroud. 

There  came  to  him  but  one  dream,  passing  befcre 
him  in  ghostly  silence  ;  he  thought  that  the  oI<l  pure 
lips,  purer  than  they  had  ever  been,  gentl)-  touched 
his  brow,  hot  and  throbbing  with  some  nameless  pain. 

Like  that  billo\vy  scpulchte  whose  restless  host 
shall  be  one  day  reclaimed,  the  most  unfathomed  sleep 
gives  up  her  dead.     I">om  which  the  next  morning 


332 


THE    UNDERTOIV 


Stephen  emerged,   dazed  and    wandering,   recalling 
one  by  one  tlie  happenings  of  tlie  day  before. 

Rising,  he  stumbled  heavily  toward  his  chair  tak- 
»ng  his  place  mechanically  at  his  desk.  His  eyes  re- 
turiied  again  and  again  to  the  still  closed  door  •  it 
remmded  him  of  that  door  in  the  distant  farmhouse 
toward  which  his  fathers  gaze  was  cast  while  one  lay 
vvithm.  amid  the  pomp  of  the  unbroken  stillness 

In  a  moment  he  arose  and  went  over  to  it,  listen- 
ing;  but  no  sound  meets  his  car.     She  is  slcepm- 
he  conjectured-but  he  could  hear  no  heavy  breath 
of  slumber.     Returning  to  his  desk,  his  eye  fell  upon 
a  stray  piece  of  paper  with  a  strange  straggling  hand- 
writing on  it.     Uneven,  spreading  letters,  who  could 
have   written   them  ?     One  glance  more,  and  a  loud 
cry   escaped  him   as   he  rose  and  rushed  toward  the 
room      The  door   was    flung  open,  and  the  fevered 
searcher  stopped  not  till  he  was  standing  right  above 
the  pillow,  though  his  first  glance  told  him  the  truth 
he  dreaded  ;  for  the  room  was  empty. 

Still  standing  above  the  crumpled  pillow,  turned 
and  overturned  as  it  had  been  in  the  long  misery  of 
the  night,  he  finished  the  letter  whose  opening 
se  tence  had  started  the  fear  that  was  now  so  bitterly 
confirmed. 

"Oh,  Stephen,"  it  ran.  "  I  want  you  to  forgive  me 
—but  I'm  going  away.  I'll  be  gone  when  you  -et 
this,  and  i  know  you'll  be  happier  without  me-after 
what  you  safd.  And  Stephen,  my  darling.  I  can't  do 
anything  else.  yo.  were  all  I  had  in  Hamilton;  now 
my  heart  is  broken  and  I  could  welcome  nothing  so 


hpmm^. 


ASHES    On    The    HEARTH  323 

much  a.s  deaih.  But  I  love  you,  Stephen,  I  love  yuu, 
and  I  shall  always  love  you,  and  I'll  always  be  >  our 
wife  and  will  always  be  true  to  you.  And  I  always 
have  been,  dear,  always  have  been  true  to  you,  thou^jh 
I  can't  blame  you  so  much  for  thinking  what  you  do  ; 
for  everything'  looks  so  straii^'e.  I'm  writmg  this  in 
the  dark,  and  it  will  look  strange  too,  but  you  will  be 
able  to  read  it  when  it  s^'ets  light.  And  I  shall  always 
pray  for  you,  Stephen,  always,  always,  that  God  will 
bless  you,  and  make  you  happy  again,  and  make  it 
all  up  to  us  both  for  what  we've  suifered — and  per- 
haps He'll  give  us  back  to  each  other  in  lieaven. 
Good-bye,  Stepiien,  I'm  going  away  for  your  sake 
"  Your  own  broken- hearted 

"  Hattie." 

He  started  blindly  to  the  door,  looking  pitifully  up 
and  down  the  -street  as  thoug'i  he  would  discover  tlic 
way  she  took.  Ikit  the  awakening  tides  of  traffic 
were  flowing  indifferently  on,  and  he  went  back  to 
the  silent  rooms,  locking  the  door  upon  his  anguish. 

"  Oh,  God,  why  hast  Thou  dealt  thus  with  me? 
Pity  me — and  bring  her  back,"  he  moaned  beside  the 
deserted  bed. 


XXVI 
•The    BREAKING    oj     The    DAY 

WHAT  power  it  wis  that  lidd  hnn  to  liis 
work  for  two  long  sorro\\-  riven  uccks. 
Steplien    himself    could    not    have    told 
Once  and  agani  he  started,  blindly  plun-u,-,  strivin^r 
pathetically  to  discover  some  inkhn^,'  of  the  direction 
Hatiies  flight  had  taken,  all  the  while  compelled  to 
ex-plam  her  absence  as  naturally  as  he  could  to  en- 
quiring friends.     His  sense    of  duty  to  his  Church 
his  wounded  pride  his  purpose  of  intenser  toil,  had 
thus  long  held  h-m       his  post. 

Not  like  the  Stephen  W'lshart  of  noble  carriage 
and  springing  step  was  the  sad-visaged  man  whom 
the  strollers  noticed  one  placid  evening  as  he  slowly 
prised  toward  the  secluding  shade  of  a  familiar  park 
Though  the  passers-by  could  hardly  fail  to  note 
the    weight    of    care   that    clouded    the   handsome 
thoughtful  face,  they  could   not  know  the  agon v  of' 
tumult  that  raged   within.     For  Stephen's   thought 
was   of  his  absent  wife,  and  strangelv-  varied  was'  its 
strain.     But  the    :jreat  opportunity  that  comes  alone 
with   anguish  was   ripening   no   har;-est  in   Stephen 
VVisharts   soul,  except  the  baneful  fruitage  n."  self- 
pity  and  half-embittered  wrath. 

The  shadows   were  deepening  about  the  spacioas 

324 


:>- 


The    BREAKING    of     The    DAY       «s 

square  as  Stephen  took  his  seat  under  a  far-sprcathn^ 
tree,  his  heart  luh  of  yearning  tor  his  vanished  wife, 
tossed  and  torn  in  its  loneHness. 

lie  niAciI  the  fi;,nire  of  a  man  who  took  his  scat 
not  far  from  hiin,  apparently  watchin<;  him  closely ; 
but  soon  he  di-missed  all  thou;^ht  of  tiie  stranj^er 
from  lii^  miiul,  occupied  a.-,  it  was  with  the  medita- 
tions that  now  absorbed  him  nij;ht  and  day. 

Suddcnl)'  he  leaped  from  his  seat,  stai tied  by  a 
voice  tliat  wa>  like  to  freeze  his  heart  within  him. 

"  Good-evenin;.,',  Mr.  W'i-hart;  enjoying'  the  air? 
You  seem  to  have  i)lcnt\'  to  thmk  about," 

It  was  Iiirani.  And  .Ste[)hen,  intent  only  on  mak- 
ing distance  between  them,  >eized  the  hat  he  had 
thrown  on  the  grass  and  started  toward  a  distant  light 
that  marked  the  entrance  to  the  park. 

"  Wishart,  cniic  back — come  back,  I  say.  I've  got 
something  to  tell  \-ou." 

Whether  it  was  the  imperiousness  of  the  man's 
voice,  or  the  strange  fascination  of  what  is  most 
pa  "  '  and  repellent,  Stephen  himself  was  probably 
not  aware,  l^ut  he  halted,  then  stood  still,  and  finally, 
retracing  his  steps,  came  back  and  stood  before  his 
destroj'er. 

"  What  is  it?"  he  asked  huskily;  '<  I  should  think 
you'd  let  me  alone  now,  after  wrecking  my  life  as  you 
have." 

"  Sit  down,  Steve,  sit  down — I  want  to  speak  to 
you.  I've  not  wrecked  your  life,  my  boy;  you  did 
that  yourself." 

'•  Dont  probe  wounds,"  he  cried,  and  the  other 


336 


THE    UNDER701V 


started  a   l;ttlc  at   the  angu.sh   .n   Ins   voice;  -.I'm 
go,ng  avvay_lct  mc  gu ;  1  vc  ,ot  cnuu^h  to  bear  ' 

iiut  yet  he  d.d  not  n.uvc,  standing  a.  if  routed  to 
the  ground,  gazing  into  h.s  cncmy'^  face 

Wha\'!ir"'  r, '"'^  '"'■  "''^'"  >'""  '-^   '-? 
and  t.el     ■  ''""  "  ^"  ' "     ^^"^"^'^  -^'--  '-^  '"- 

"  ^:""  ^""<'  »'»«-'  a"-^^^^-'-  coming  heav.iy. 
"  \c..  I  knou-l  know  what  >.,..,  z/,,,,.,^,  ,,as  the 
ea,son..t    was   that   letter,  ua.nt  ,t  ?     U  eli  StJ." 
m  go.ng  to  tell  you  sonK-th.ng-that  s  what  I  fol-' 
owed  you   m  here  for.      I  guess  I've  got  you.  Steve 
I^o  you   remember  that  morning  in  the  barnyard  at 
the    old   farm  ?     ^'ou   ren.en.ber   my   u ,.],    f.l  y., 
don  t   you.   that  you  should  go  on  into  the  nnnLy' 
v.thout  he  grace  of  God  ?     That  was  all  the  reven.^e 
Jt'^-t      ^"f  ""''''^'■■'"^'     ^^-i  I  got  it  all 
l.ght  bla/mg  from  h.s  eyes,  .<  1  got  it,  by  God.     V.u 
went  on  and  you  thought  I'd  forgotten,  and  God  had 
dropped   the   thing-and  everything  wa    'ovely-fll 
he  c  ock-  struck ;  and  then  you  saw  I  wasn't  such  a 
lool  at  wislimg  after  all." 

■•That  s  a  matter  betv.cen  me  and  God-vengeance 
Jfn  t  yours  ;  .s  that  what  j-ou  had  to  tell  me  ?  "  and 
Stephen  s  pale  lips  were  trembling  as  he  spoke 

'•  i\o  I  ve  got  something  else,  something  interest- 
ng-,ts   about  that  letter;  she  wrote  th.-U  letter  to 

save  you.  that  scrap   I  sent  you-and  you  bit  at  it 
hke  I  knew  you  would.     She  wrote  it  to  sa^■e  j-ou 
because  she  knew  I  could  crush  you  like  that  weed"' 


i  -4^ 


7h 


c    BREAKING    of    The    DA  Y 


he  went  on,  stamping  In-,  licel  upun  the  j^iomi J  ; 
"  but  you  uuiildn't  believe  her,  ot  cour>e— Iter  ex- 
planations u ere  no  good  to  you.  Anybody  with  an 
experience  a.-,  irrei)roachable  a.-  yours  couldn't  im- 
agine such  a  thing  hai)pening  innocently.  Ive  'AWn 
noticed  It's  the  (ellous  tiiat  need  torgivenes,-,  m.^t 
themselves,  ulio  can't  believe  anything  good  alh>ut 
anybody  el,-,e.  I  hey  wonder  what  (unls  doing  '.\a\\ 
Hh  time,  when  anybody  they're  interested  in  >eciu^ 
to  'je  allowed  to  do  anything  that  iiurt-,  them— .-„,nie- 
body  they're  n.)t  worthy  to  touch  them>elve>.  iiere. 
you  can  read  tne  letter— the  part  you  didn't  .>ee"' 
Stephen  took  the  letter,  and.  a,s  he  .trained  his  eves 
to  read  it  in  the  lailmg  light,  as  he  saw  the  love  that 
pleaded  for  her  husband,  his  trembling  hand  could 
scarcely  hold  the  page,  iii>  face  blanched  and  uhite. 

"  I've  had  my  i)uni.hnient."— Stephen'.-,  v,<ice  could 
be  scarcely  heard--  but  tli,^_but  tin.."  he  moaned; 
'*oh,  God.  I  should  have  known  it  all  the  time.  Leave 
me.     Leave  me  to  m\    _If  and  my  God." 

'•  That's  what  Lm  going  to  do.  Wish.art.  Lm  going 
away  where  you'll  never  see  me  again— but  it'll  af- 
ways  make  me  glad  to  think  my  little  handiwork  h 
complete  and  will  be  bearing  truit.  no  matter  lio\\  ,ar 
away  I  am.  You're  not  worth)  of  her,  Wishart. 
you  stung  her  into  madness,  and  (}od  ne\er  made  a 
truer  heart  than  hers.  Go  h.^nic  now— home  with 
you,"  he  cried  in  a  rising  xmce,  "  and  write  that  ser- 
mon on  your  sin  tending  you  out.  Vou  remember, 
don't  you.  I  a.sked  you  long  ago  tr  take  that  text,' 
that  morning  at  the  stable,  after  j-ou  had  been  too 


mtm 


32S 


THE    UNDERTOIV 


smart  for  poor  Rube  tlic  night  before.  I've  been 
waiting  a  long  ..nie  for  that  sermon.  Good-night, 
Mr.  Wishart,  minister  of  the  gospel  of  the  grace  of 
God  ;  sweet  dreams  to  you." 

Dark  as  the  evening  shadows  that  had  fallen  round 
him  were  Stephen's  meditations  as  he  turned  his 
steps  toward  the  haunted  rooms  that  had  once  been 
called  their  home. 

A  familiar  voice,  rolling  now  in  the  cadence 
of  public  speech,  broke  in  upon  those  meditations 
Looking  up,  he  found  himself  before  the  imposing 
portals  of  St.  Anne's  ;  and  the  voice,  he  knows  at 
once,  ,s  that  of  Father  O'Rourke,  rich  and  musical 
with  tides  of  feeling.  Almost  unconscious  of  his 
movement,  Stephen  turns  his  steps  within,  still  under 
the  spell  of  the  voice. 

Unnoticed,  he  steals  into  the  church.  Early  teach- 
ing and  prejudice  had  clothed  every  Catholic  church 
with  unholy  mystery  or  with  the  scarlet  robe  of  sin. 
But  he  had  no  sense  of  this  as  he  pressed  silently 
within  the  dimly  lighted  building,  beguiled  by  the 
heart-tones  of  a  man  whose  soul  he  felt  would 
shrive  a  heathen  temple,  flowing  pure  about  its 
walls. 

Taking  his  place  in  the  corner  of  the  crowded 
edifice,  his  eye  roved  over  the  assembled  worship  °rs. 
Rapt  and  earnest,  in  all  the  majesty  of  spiritual  need, 
their  faces  were  toward  the  preacher ;  theirs  faintly 
showing  in  the  semi-darkness,  his  illumined  by  the 
pulpit  light  that  burned  beside  him,  the  changing 
currents  clear  marked  as  they  ebbed  and  flowed  upon 


The    BREAKING    of    The    DAY     329 

it.  The  flickering  candles,  mingling  their  feeble 
lustre  with  the  dying  light  of  day.  played  upon  the 
upturned  countenances  of  the  congregation  a^  upon 
a  single  face. 

The  old  were  there,  seeking  to  discern  the  evening 
star  that  should  replace  the    garish  light  so  nearly 
vanished  ;  the  careworn,  some  with  t!i^-  pledges  of 
tlieir  care  beside  them,  bowing  before  the  preacher's 
words  as  flowers  greet  de>cending  rain  ;  some  there 
were,  marked  with  the  scars  of  inward  conflict,  wait- 
ing for  the  terms  of  truce,  mayhap  of  final  peace  ; 
some,  whose  eyes  were  glistening  through  darksome 
veils  of  widowhood  ;  some,  sighing  heavily  as  their 
glances  fell  on  childish  forms  around  them  ;    some 
emaciated  and  pale,  and  some  stifling  the  suggestive 
cough,  their  faces  full  of  the  pathetic  peace  that  the 
secret  sentence   of  death   so   often    brings.     But  it 
seemed  to  Stephen,  as  he  gazed,  that  there  were  none 
but  needed  help,  some  openly  claiming  it  in  candid 
pleading,  some  speeding  it  the  more  because  of  hidden 
wounds  whose  life-blood  the  sternest  armour  could 
not  hide. 

He  had  not  listened  long  before  all  others  were 
forgotten,  the  preacher's  message  transfixing  his  own 
soul.  It  is  of  Jacob,  Father  O'Rourke  is  preaching, 
of  his  mysterious  struggle  with  the  unseen  wrestler 
till  the  breaking  of  the  day. 

"  Why  then  was  Jacob  thus  held  back  ? "  the 
preacher  asked,  his  tender  glance  seeming  to  pene- 
trate to  every  heart,  "  when  on  the  very  eve  of  at- 
taining his  soul's  desire  ?     Why  was  he  tluis  balked 


330 


THE    UNDERTOn^ 


and  thwarted  ?  Listen,  it  was  for  this  ;  Jacob  thought 
he  had  outwitted  the  Almighty.  Because  of  fraud, 
years  before,  he  had  been  exiled  from  the  land  he 
now  sought  to  reenter,  meeting  hostility  with  guile. 
And  Jacob  is  thus  arrested  that  he  may  learn  this 
wondrous  lesson,  a  lesson  some  of  us  may  be  learn- 
ing this  very  night,  that  our  sin  will  find  us  out ;  that 
we  can't  outrun  God ;  that  penitence  must  precede 
resistance  ;  that  all  our  smartness  and  cunning,  how- 
ever they  may  deceive  and  outdo  our  neighbours, 
must  yet  be  pitted  against  a  Nameless  One,  outcom- 
ing  from  the  darkness  to  challeng'^  the  victory  we 
had  thought  complete.  How  many  a  sturdy  swim- 
mer, victorijus  over  angry  waves,  panting  with  de- 
sire when  he  thinks  the  shore  is  won,  has  yet  felt  the 
awful  talons  of  the  undertow  seize  upon  him  like  a 
living  thing,  drawing  him  back  to  the  depths  of  dark- 
ness and  despair.  Esteem  no  shore  of  human  happi- 
ness as  fully  won  till  you  have  /eckoned  with  that  un- 
dertow, which  teaches  men  their  need  of  God. 

••  Every  man  who  strives  to  prevail,  while  still  un- 
forgiven  of  his  sin,  must  learn  that  in  the  last  appeal, 
the  struggle  is  with  God ;  and  every  misfortune, 
every  disappointment,  every  strange  scourging  of  af- 
fairs that  seem  by  accident  to  thwart  and  baffle  us ; 
nay,  every  cruel  blow  from  unseen  hands,  every  shock 
of  sorrow,  every  bitter  enemy  who  lays  our  hopes 
and  lives  in  ashes,  all  these  are  but  the  varied  move- 
ments of  that  Antagonist  who  seems  to  have  forgot- 
ten, but  whose  shadowy  hand,  emerging  from  the 
darkness,  holds  us  back  when  our  feet  are  already 


■The    BREAKING   of    The    DAY      ))i 

touching  the  long  sought  promised  land,  whatever  it 
may  be. 

"  And  oh,  my  brethren,"  the  priest  cried,  his  voice 
athrill  with  tenderness,  "  the  greatest  lesson  of  this 
ghostly  tournament  is  this— that  a  better  victo-y  may 
be  ours,  a  statelier  Eden  may  be  won.  For  it  was  thus 
with  Jacob,  when  struggle  turned  to  prayer,  when, 
recognizing  at  last  against  whom  he  fought,  he 
ceased  to  wrestle  and  began  to  pray,  the  voice  of 
anger  and  ambition  hushed  in  the  noble  threat:  '  I 
will  not  let  thee  go  except  thou  bless  me.'  As 
blessed  he  was ;  never  the  same  again  ;  to  go  halting 
ever  after,  it  is  true,  but  walking  humbly  with  his 
God,  chastened  to  a  deeper  peace  than  the  joy  of 
triumph  ever  could  have  brought  him,  his  heart 
deep  gratitude  now  to  b.  evoked  at  thought  of  the 
great  overtlirow  that  had  purified  the  stream  of  his 
desire  and  filled  his  life  with  blessing. 

"  And  many  a  man  has  lived  to  bless  the  hand 
that  smote  him,  even  to  thank  God  for  some  relent- 
less enemy,  when  he  has  come  to  see  that  this  very 
enemy  was  God's  minister  to  his  soul.  The  very 
man  who  has  blighted  his  darling  hopes,  or  laid  his 
hearth  in  ruins,  or  plunged  his  life  in  unrelieved 
eclipse,  is  recognized  as  but  the  messenger  of  that 
great  Power  who  hurls  us  back  from  happiness  that 
He  may  lead  us  forth  to  it  again  by  purer  paths  of 
sorrow,  who  robs  us  of  our  rapture  that  He  may  save 
our  souls." 


The  priest's  voice  had  fallen  to  the  low  tone  of  im- 


332 


THE    UNDERTOiV 


passioned  pleading ;  and  as  he  closed,  the  organ  in 
the  loft  above  poured  forth  some  vesper  melody,  the 
service  blending  with  it  according  to  the  Romish 
wa}-.  But  Stephen  heard  it  not,  nor  paid  attention 
to  the  succeeding  ceremonies. 

For  the  hour  of  his  light  had  come  at  last ;  and 
his  soul  was  engaged  with  God,  doing  homage  in 
that  eternal  ritual  with  which  no  priest  can  interfere, 
before  which  cathedral  rites  are  put  to  shame. 

That  his  soul  has  been  trifling  with  the  Eternal, 
and  that  the  Eternal  has  been  in  earnest  with  his 
soul — these  two  mighty  truths  shine  out  from  all  the 
storm  of  years.  And  with  the  great  conviction  his 
refuge  of  lies  vanishes  like  the  mirage  of  the  desert ; 
all  his  dexterous  efforts  to  serve  God  and  mammon  ; 
hi  outward  zeal  and  his  secret  infirmity;  his  mad 
auempt  to  foster  holy  love  and  unforgiving  sin  in  the 
selfsame  heart — all  pass  before  him  in  the  awful  can- 
dour of  reality.  His  soul  cries  aloud  for  mercy  as 
they  pass,  wrapped  in  unconscious  ecstasy  that  at 
last  it  has  given  up  its  dead. 

The  faces  of  his  fellow-worshippers  are  hardly  dis- 
tinguishable in  the  increasing  darkness,  their  eyes 
fastened  on  the  altar  lights  before  him.  Some  few, 
recognizing  him,  turn  curious  glances  where  he 
stands.  But  he  heeds  them  not,  nor  knows  that  any 
are  beside  him  save  alone  that  nameless  Wrestler 
whose  name  he  has  learned  at  last. 

That  this  is  a  Catholic  church,  branded  to  him 
from  infancy,  he  remembers  not.  For  it  has  become 
to  him  the  house  of  God,  the  very  gate  of  heaven,  as 


■The    BREAKING    of    The    DAY      333 

his  lips  muvc  silently  in  the  first  true  luxury  of 
prayer  he  has  known  since  the  sincerity  o(  child- 
hood. He  thinks  of  the  Publican  ;  but  dares  to  lift 
his  eyes  ^toward  heaven. 

And  lo !  They  fall  upon  the  central  figure  of  the 
ages  ;  looking  down  upon  him,  ineffable  pity  in  the 
dying  eyes,  was  the  face  of  the  Crucified,  His  arms 
wide  outstretched  ui)on  the  cross.  Luminous  in  love 
appeared  the  wistful  gaze,  finding  him  out  amid  the 
throng,  and  calling  him  to  the  pardon  and  the  peace 
His  passion  had  provided.  In  great  and  holy  loneli- 
ness that  figure  bended  over  him  ;  and  Stephen's 
melted  hea-t  acclaimed  his  Saviour,  standing  as  he 
was  amid  otiier  sinful  men,  but  beholding  the  great 
Redemption  as  for  him  alone. 

The  baying  voices  of  the  past,  of  an  accusing  con- 
science, of  a  threatening  future,  of  a  ruined  life,  are 
all  hushed  in  silence,  as  he  looks,  the  tears  rolhng 
down  his  cheeks  at  the  mighty  revelation,  its  new- 
ness smiting  him  with  overwhelming  power.  He 
sees  the  crown  of  thorns,  the  wounded  hands,  the 
pallid  brow,  the  fragrance  of  welcome  death;  and 
his  trembling  soul  crept  into  the  great  shelter  of  the 
Sacrifice,  without  voice  of  praise  or  sound  of  vow, 
with  nothing  but  the  blessed  sense  of  need  and  guilt 
and  sorrow — and  refuge  from  them  all. 


7«Hcr^7^9^ri 


rm 


XXVII 
"AND   GO    UNTO   MY   FATHER" 

NATURES  meant  for    greatness  may   be, 
often  are,  capable  of  mysterious  weakness; 
but  great  occasions  will  reveal  their  latent 
strength,  in  swift  and  decisive  action. 

Thus  was  it  with  Stephen  Wishart,  his  soul's 
awakening  flowing  into  great  resolve.  The  prowess 
of  noble  natures  is  attested  by  their  capacity  to 
choose,  not  between  a  right  and  a  wrong— but  be- 
tween two  rights.  Which  two  now  laid  claim  to 
Stephen's  .oyalty— his  duty  to  his  sacred  calling  and 
his  duty  to  his  departed  wife.  These  rival  claims 
were  soon  adjusted. 

For  on  the  succeeding  Sabbath  day  the  spell-bound 
worshippers  heard  his  last  sermon  in  the  Church  of 
the  Covenant.  It  was  preceded  by  a  brief  and  irrev- 
ocable statement  of  the  immediate  severance  of  the 
tie  that  bound  them,  for  which  he  suggested  no  rea- 
son and  volunteered  no  explanation.  Nor  did  they 
suspect  the  truth,  nor  any  part  of  it.  Vaguely  had 
the  impression  spread,  exciting  no  comment,  that 
their  minister's  wife  was  gone  on  a  visit  to  distant 
friends  ;  though  who  these  were,  or  where  they  dwelt, 
was  wrapped  in  the  uncertainty  that  had  long  baffled 
the  very  curiosity  it  first  aroused. 

Reawakened  though  this  was  by  his  strange  an-> 
nouncement,  it  was  soon  lost  in  wonder  as  they  fell 

334 


-/iND  GO  UNTO  MY  FATHER"      335 

under  the  charm  of  his  parting  sermon.  For  the 
chastened  face,  radiant  with  its  great  emotion,  and 
the  rich  voice,  tlirillcd  and  thrilling  with  the  new  tide 
of  feehng  in  his  soul,  and  the  copious  flow  of  speech, 
strong,  tender,  eloquent  even  beyond  his  wont,  breath- 
ing a  simphcity  of  faith  and  a  strength  of  purpose 
tiiat  found  their  other  voice  m  the  soulful  eyes  which 
a  holier  vision  than  they  knew  had  kindled— all  com- 
bined to  enhance  a  thrall  the  most  careless  were  com- 
pelled to  own. 

The  following  Monday  morning,  a  committee  called 
upon  him  to  remonstrate.  Hastily  organized,  it  was 
almost  as  hastily  dismissed,  marvelling  at  an  intensity 
bej'ond  their  understanding. 

And  the  lengthening  shadows  about  his  path  were 
cast  by  that  same  morning's  sun,  almost  vanished 
now,  as  Stephen  hurried  along  the  familiar  way  from 
the  station  to  his  father's  house.  Not  waiting  to 
knock,  he  opened  the  door  and  entered. 

Warm  and  loving,  subdued  and  reserved  though  the 
voice  that  uttered  it,  was  the  welcome  of  Robert 
Wishart  to  his  son.  An  instant  told  hmi  it  was  a 
wounded  fledgling  that  had  crept  back  to  the  nest; 
and  all  that  tender  tact  could  do  wa.^^  soon  availed  to 
learn  the  cause. 

"  Ye're  the  minister  o'  the  Covenant  Kirk,  my  son 
—but  I'm  yir  faither ;  aye  mind  ye  that,  laddie.  I'm 
yir  faither—an'  ye  canna  suffer  wi'Dot  I  suffbr  tae,"  he 
said  in  mother  tones.  "  Licht  the  lamp,  Reuben';  it's 
ower  dark." 

"Please    don't,    father."    Stephen    interrupted,  his 


3J6 


THE    UNDERTOW 


I 


voice  low;  "Id  sooner  talk  in  the  gloaming.  Sit 
here  beside  me,  Reuben,  and  I'll  tell  you  and  father 
everything." 

Reuben  drew  his  chair  nearer,  and  the  three  pro- 
files, deep  seriousness  upon  every  face,  were  barely 
V  sible  in  the  deepening  dusk. 

Stephen    began;    and    sometimes    with   faltering 
w  jrds,  sometimes  with  half-torrent  speech,  sometimes 
with  choking  voice,  sometimes  with  gusts  of  silence, 
he  told  all  the  tragic  .tory.     As  he  finished,  the  bitter 
plaint  of  his  loneliness,  of  his  love  for  the  pure  spirit 
that  had  fled  from  him,  broke  from  his  lips  in  a  surg- 
mg  cry  he  tried  in   vain  to  stifle  ;  and  slowly,  with 
the  caress  of  an  infinite  compassion,  his  father's  arm 
stole  about  his  neck,  tightening,  tightening  in  answer 
to  his  soul's  strong  pity,  as  though  he  would  shelter 
him  forever.     And  as  Stephen  leaned  his  face  against 
the  great  true  bosom,  with  a  trustfulness  he  had  not 
known  since  boyhood,  a  sense  of  warmth  and  com- 
fort crept  about  him  as  he  realized  that  a  wounded 
son  hath  no  refuge  like  a  father's  love. 

The  father's  quivering  voice  broke  the  stillness. 
"  My  bairn,  my  mitherless   bairn,   I'm   faither  and 
mither  to  ye  baith.     Oh,  Stephen,  my  son,  my  son." 

Then  he  stroked  his  hair,  even  touched  his  cheek 

and  the  other  hemisphere  of  his  father's  soul  unfolded 
itself  in  that  moment  as  Stephen  had  never  known  it 
before. 

Soon  the  old  man  returned  to  his  chair,  all  his  old 
control  restored ;  amid  the  now  fallen  night  he  talked 
on,  reviewing,  estimating,  comforting,  counselling. 


ib:::i3Pri 


fmmz^i^'i^^mmnamM^W3^^iS;^ixs!mLi-s^r  ss^. 


"AND  GO   UNTO  MY  FATHER'      3,7 

"  Ye  maun  <^ang  an'  find  her  like  a  man,  Stephen." 
he  said  at  len^'th.  "  Ye  maun  follow  till  ye  find  her. 
Ye  did  richt  to  gie  up  yir  kirk  ;  an'  ye  maun  .tart 
the  morn.  ...  It  disna  maitter  wiiere.  1  tinnk 
mysel'  she'll  hae  made  tor  her  auld  hame— that'-.  .t\  c 
the  way  wi'  the  fieein'.  Aye,  she  niai.t  likely  struck 
for  the  auld  country.  Did  ye  no'  sa>-  it  was  Chester 
she  cam  frae  ?  The  money  ye  j;ied  her  alore  bhc  cam 
doon  to  vi>it  here — toward  a  seal-skin  coat,  ye  said— 
that  wad  be  plenty  to  tak  her  hamc.  An'  it's  nat'ral 
for  onybody  to  gang  hame." 

This  opened  a  new  vein;  the  conversation  had 
wound  its  way  but  a  little  farther  when  the  father's 
voice  broke  in  again. 

"  Reuben,  licht  ye  the  lamp.  " 

"Pardon  me,  father— but  why?"  Stephen  ven- 
tured. "  It  seems  so  much  easier,  for  me  at  least,  to 
talk  all  this  in  the  dark." 

"We're  through  wi' talkin',"  his  father  answered 
a/most  sternly;  "the  time  for  talkin's  past.  I'm 
gaein'  to  dae  something;  Reuben,  kindle  ye  the 
lamp." 

Which,  duly  lighted,  the  old  man  took  from  Reu- 
ben's hand,  passing  straightway  into  the  adjt)ining 
room.  They  heard  the  click  of  a  lock,  the  scrajjing 
of  a  reluctant  drawer,  then  the  rustling  of  a  hurriec" 
search  ;  and  in  a  nK^ment  the  father  was  back  again. 

"  Reuben's  great  for  thae  banks,"  he  remarked,  as 
he  set  the  lamp  on  the  ta'jle,  "  but  I  aye  keep  a  wee 
pickle  where  I  can  pit  my  hands  on't ;  I  dinna  be- 
lieve in  sendia'  a'  the  cream  till  the  factory,"  he  added 


-is,'-^ji5r ' , 


}}» 


THE    U\DERTOU^ 


as  he  sat  down  beside  Stephen,  slowly  beginning  to 
count  out  a  roll  of  startlingly  large  bills. 

"  Here,  Stephen,"  he  said  after  a  pause,  "  ye  canna 
gang  to  the  auld  country  wi'oot  siller — nor  hame 
again — and  it's  been  botherin'  me  what  wad  I  dae  wi' 
this ;  this  is  the  Lord's  daein'.  Tak  it,  my  son ; 
there's  an  extry  pickle  there  to  buy  the  lassie's  ticket 
back— to  bring  the  lassie  back,  mmd  ye.  I'm  thirstin' 
for  a  blink  o'  her  bonnie  eyes.  Na,  na,  ye  maun  tak 
it,  Stephen." 

Stephen  was  trembling  as  his  father  thrust  the  rust- 
ling notes  into  his  hand  ;  the  grandeur  of  this  great 
life,  far  more  than  the  money  he  had  just  received, 
overbore  his  wondering  soul,  towering  before  him  like 
a  distant  peak,  more  and  more  revealed  as  it  came 
n.  arer  to  the  light  of  heaven  Rising  with  an  im- 
pulsive movement,  he  flung  his  arms  about  his  father's 
neck. 

"  Oh,  father,"  he  faltered,  "  I  don't  deserve  it— all 
you  and  Rube  have  done  for  me.  Oh,  God,  forgive 
me.  My  father,  my  father  !  "  he  sobbed,  as  he  held 
his  father  close,  the  bills  now  fluttering  about  his 
feet. 

Reuben  stooped  to  recover  them,  and  as  he  handed 
them  to  his  brother  there  was  a  wealth  of  sincerity  in 
his  voice. 

"  Why,  Steve,  why  shouldn't  we— both  ?  We'll  all 
work  together,  Steve,  till  everything  comes  right 
again.     I  know  you'll  get  her  b.ick." 

Meantime  the  old  man  had  found  shelter  at  the 
clock,  winding  awa,    as  though  the  sands  of  time 


''AND  GO   UNTO  MY  FATHER'      359 

were  sinking.     As  he  closed  the  ponderous  door  he 
turned  his  head  toward  his  sons. 

"  There's  juist  ae  thing  I  want  ye  to  mind, 
Stephen." 

"  Yei,,  father,"  came  the  subdued  voice,  "  wiiat 
is  it  ?  " 

"  I  want  ye  to  mind  there's  mair  where  yon  cam 
frae — there's  mair  when  ye're  needin'  it.  Now  we'll 
gang  till  oor  rest." 


V      III 


The    PRO    ^ 

ALOITKRiis 
greyhound 
that  had  b 
sea.  And  as  it  stc 
fellow  travellers  coi. 
ness  of  the  gaze  wit 
proaching  shore,  thou 


U>1.. 


will. 

'  tin-/ 


S    CRUSADE 

d,   proudly   defined   as 

was,  s'.emed  ihc  vessel 

hen    ■'-•■      across    the 

lie  "^Jersey  liis 

the  stern  earnest- 

seirched    the   ap- 

»ot  how  great  tlie 

i  lis  had  not  been  a 


treasure   he  had  come  to  seek  ^ 

familiar  form  among  the  passengers  ;  for  much  of  his 
tmie  had  been  spent  a'ter  a  fashion  that  was  growing 
sweetrr  to  his  taste,  alone  with  that  conquering 
Wrestler  who  \\as  now  his  friend,  perfecting  the 
anguished  convalescence  of  his  soul. 

Liverpool  was  soon  left  behind.  An  hour  later, 
the  shadows  lengtliening  about  liim  as  he  walked,  a 
sad  faced  man  was  pressing  sluwly  along  tiic  torpid 
streets  of  Chester,  little  noting  its  claims  to  anticiuar- 
ian  fame.  For  a  far  different  past,  and  a  throhbii-g 
present,  and  an  uncertain  fut  ire,  filled  his  mind. 
Thi :  was  the  city  whose  name  had  been  so  often  on 
her  lips  in  the  endearing  terms  of  home. 

He  found  himself  unexpectedly  beneath  the  shadow 
of  the  great  catnedral ;  he  smiled  as  he  recalled  how 
the  iron  Cromwell  had  once  stabled  his  horse  within 
its  walls,  by  way  of  demonstration  that  he  was  low- 

340 


The    PRODIGALS    CRUSADE 


^1 


churchman  to  tlic  heart.  Hcfjuilinrj  strains  of  music 
called  hull,  and  he  entered  the  noble  portal,  walking 
toward  the  ai^le  with  that  <Kean  ol'  loneliiie--,  about 
him  which  only  eventide,  and  twili^jlit  nuisic,  and  a 
shadowed  heart  can  combine  tw  furnish. 

What  would  have  given  him  a  snrt  of  peace  in 
other  days  seemed  now  but  t  probe  and  torture,  lie 
soon  turned  av,'ain  toward  tin  li-ht  w  itliout,  dim  liglit 
enough  without  cathedral  shades.  And,  reappearing, 
he  suddenly  realized  how  helpless  was  this  aimless 
wandering;  yet  he  knew  not  what  eUe  to  di->.  lie 
wandered  on.  Hut  a  few  minutes  had  parsed  when 
he  found  himself  crossing  the  park  that  lead^  to  the 
<;reat  cliff  overhanging  the  placid  Dee.  He  took  a 
scat  HI  the  little  arbour  at  the  very  edge,  pondering 
how  best  he  might  begin  the  chase.  Soon  he  noticed 
that  an  \d  man  with  flowing  beard  had  taken  his 
seat  beside  hun.     The  stranger  w<is  the  first  to  speak. 

"  That's  a  wonderful  bit  o'  mu-ic.  sir,"  he  remarked 
in  a  decidediy  English  voice,  "  the  best  bell  in  .ill 
Hengland,  sir,"  as  the  rich  tones  rolled  froiri  the  ca- 
thedral tower. 

"  It  is,"  Stephen  answered,  "  it's  lovely  music  ; 
what  is  it  ringing  for  ?  " 

"  I*  1  the  curlew,  sir — it's  to  call  the  wanderers  'fine. 
That's  the  bell  as  Mr.  Gray  wa-  a  thinkin'  of  when  he 
wrote  'is  helegy,  sir.  My  great-grandfather  knowed 
Mr.  Gray  ,  he  wrote  poetry  'imself.  sir — but  he  never 
'appened  to  think  of  a  hel"gy.  It  was  a  grand  idea, 
the  idea  of  a  helegy."  he  concluded,  shaking  his  head 
sag.ic!ov,  '/  at  Stephen. 


342 


THE    UNDERTO V 


"  Have  you  lived  long  in  Chester  ?  "  the  latter  en- 
quired, after  a  sufficiently  respectful  pause. 

"  All  my  life,  sir— that  is,  in  the  country  near-by— 
I  'ad  a  little  place  in  the  country,  sir.  But  I  retired 
to  Chester;  came  in  when  I  'eard  the  curfew  ring  the 
hevening,  as  I  might  say,  sir—that's  my  great-grand- 
father in  me  ;  did  I  tell  you  he  was  a  poet,  sir  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  thmk  you  did,"  Stephen  answered  ab- 
sently, bent  on  different  information.  Which  he  pro- 
ceeded to  seek. 

Concealing  his  errand,  he  began  to  cross-question 
the  old  man  ;  for  Hattie,  too.  had  lived  in  the  near-by 
country.  An  eager  quarter  of  an  hour  had  passed 
when  Stephen  rose  to  go. 

"  I  think  I  can  find  the  way.  I'm  sure  I  can— but 
you  say  there's  none  of  them  there  now  ?  " 

"  No,  of  course  there  ben't  any  of  them  there  now 
—the  girl  was  the  last  to  go,  and  she  went  to  Lunnon 
not  long  after  her  mother  died.  Her  mother  'ad 
some  of  the  best  blood  of  Haberdeen  in  her  veins, 
they  say— and  the  lassie  looked  it.  She  was  the 
prettiest  they  ever  'ad  round  here,  sir— you  say  you 
knew  her  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  knew  her."  Stephen's  voice  was  low  and 
lonely  as  he  looked  far  out  over  the  tranquil  valley  of 
the  Dee,  the  clatter  of  happy  boaters  floating  up  to 
him,  "  and  I  thank  you  warmly,  sir ;  I'll  go  out  to 
Hazleside  in  the  morning.  I'll  see  the  Hadleys,  of 
whom  you  speak— I  have  the  name  in  my  notebook." 

He  walked  with  strange  hurry  back  to  the 
quaint   Westminster  Inn,  dear  to  all  lovers  of  quiet 


ytSi-Tam 


->  /ai' ' 


The    PRODIGAL'S   CRUSADE 


343 


elegance.     When  he  reached  its  hospitable  portal  he 


perspiration— and  he  marvelled  at  his 
avail  him  nothing— she  was  not 


was  bathed  in 
haste;  for  it  co 

there.  Through  its  dim  halls,  richly  strewn  with  an- 
cient treasure,  he  hurried  to  his  room,  where,  seated 
by  the  window,  the  subdued  tumult  of  the  classic  city 
floated  up  about  him.  He  dreaded  the  waiting  night 
and  knew  not  how  he  could  get  it  past.  What  was 
this  that  so  worked  like  madness  in  his  brain  ? 

Suddenly  he  sprang  to  his  feet,  obedient  to  a  quick 
resolve.  No  night  for  him,  when  perchance  but  an 
hour's  search  lay  between  him  and  eternal  day !  lie 
hurried  to  the  street  below  ;  five  minutes  later  he  was 
driving  swiftly  past  God's  Providence  House,  and  a 
fiercer  fever  than  any  it  had  escaped  was  burning  in 
his  heart. 

Soon  the  blessed  country  air  inned  his  fevered 
face.  Enquiring,  knocking,  retracing  the  way,  en- 
quiring again,  he  at  last  found  the  cottage  wIk  in 
dwelt  the  Hadleys,  to  whom  his  earlier  informant  iiad 
referred  him.  A  light  burned  dimly  in  an  upper 
window,  evidently  the  last ;  Stephen  flew  to  the  door 
and  knocked.  In  a  few  minutes  a  middle  aged  man 
appeared. 

"  Excuse  me,  sir,"  Stephen  began,  "  for  disturbing 
you  so  late ;  but  I  am  on  important  business."  Then 
followed  his  eager  veiled  enquiry,  the  enquirer  thank- 
ful for  the  dark. 

The  man  blinked  heavily,  rubbing  one  foot  against 
the  other. 

"  Aye,  I  know  the  name,"  he  said  reflectively,  "  the 


H4 


■THE    UNDERTOW 


% 


Hastie  name  used  to  be  weii-known  round  here ;  the 
Bostons  are  in  their  house  now.  I  knew  tlie  girl,  too 
— but  we've  lost  all  trace  of  her — she  left  here  about 
the  time  you  said.  They're  all  gone  now — I  was 
speakin'  to  the  missus  about  them  to-day.  The 
burying-ground's  a  mile  farther  along  the  road,  and 
Jake  Boston  told  me  there's  a  new  stone  in  their 
plot. 

"What's  that  you  say?  Oh,  yes,  easy  enough — 
it's  about  ten  minutes'  drive  ;  I  see  you've  got  a  trap 
— it's  on  the  right  hand  side.  Good-night,  sir,  good- 
night," for  Stephen  was  already  hurrying  to  his  car- 
riage. "  Their  plot's  in  the  very  centre,  under  the 
highest  elm  in  the  place,"  the  man  called  after  him. 

Half  of  the  ten  minutes  were  ^till  unspent  when 
Stephen  stepped  from  the  cab. 

"  Drive  on  a  little  ways,"  he  ordered  the  wonder- 
ing man,  "  and  wait  till  I  ccme." 

The  moon  was  veiled  as  he  groped  his  way  through 
the  long  grass,  turning  this  way  and  that,  to  violate 
no  slumberer's  bed.  Soon  he  marked  the  tree,  and 
beneath  it  found  the  stone,  its  surroundings  indi- 
cating that  it  had  been  newly  placed.  A  strange  fear 
seized  him,  full  of  unreasoning  dread — for  it  could 
scarcely  be — and  he  sank  down,  heedless  of  the  soak- 
ing dew,  upon  the  grave.  The  imperfect  light  was 
just  sufficient  to  let  him  see  that  there  was  lettering 
on  the  stone.  His  eyes  fastened  themselves  in  a 
rigid  gaze  upon  the  characters — but  in  vain. 

Yet  what  letter  was  that,  that  initial  letter?  His 
hand  shook  like  an  aspen  as  he  fumbled  in  his  pocket 


■The    PRODIGALS   CRUSADE     345 

for  a  match.  He  struck  it  violently  and  held  it  up  in 
a  torment  of  fear  ;  the  distant  driver  chided  his  rest- 
less horse,  and  the  hollow  sound  echoed  about  h,m 
hke  a  profane  voice  amid  the  stillness  of  the  dead 
Then  the  match  fell  from  his  hand,  faintiv  dyinij 
among  the  glistening  grass,  and  Stq^hen's  head  fell 
forward  on  his  arms,  his  hand  resting  on  tlie  gloomy 
marble,  a  low  groan  gurgling  from  his  lip,. 

Huttie  Hastie,'  "  he  murmured  to  himself  "  Oh 
God,  Hattie-IJattie.-  Yet  even  then  a  dim.  dead 
query  floated  through  his  mind  as  to  who  had  dis- 
charged  the  sacred  trust.  It  vanished,  and  his  head 
sunk  lower,  despair  clutching  at  his  heart. 

In  sudden  triumph  the  silvery  moon  swam  forth 
from  behind  the  clouds,  gilding  every  sepulchre  with 
light.  Stephen  started  at  the  silent  crash,  rai ^cd  him- 
self up,  turned  his  staring  eyes  again  upon  the  stone. 
rhe  distant  driver  started  in  fear  as  he  heard  the  sud- 
den cry ;  ,t  was  the  cry  of  a  sudden  ecstasy 

"  Hattie  Hastie,  wife  of  Alexander  Hastie  "  the 
inscription  read,  -  in  the  forty-second  year  of  her 
age. 

Stephen  sprang  to  his  feet,  his  face  brighter  than 
the  night,  devouring  the  words  again,  glorying  in  the 
tale  ot  death. 

The  moon,  still  generous  with  her  light,  gilc'ed  the 
hvo  mounds  that  laj-  before  him  in  majestic  stillness. 
Ihen  his  heart  leaped  within  him  as  he  sprang  for- 
^vard,  seizing  a  rich  cluster  of  flowers  that  lay  upon 
the  mother's  grave;  pale  as  the  dead  beneath  he 
gazed  at  it.  holding  it  out  before  him,  even  buryinjr 


346 


THE    UNDERTOW 


his  face  within  it  to  taste  its  rich  perfume.  For  the 
flowers  were  fresh  and  new — therefore  was  his  face  so 
pale      Had  he  found  the  hving  among  the  dead? 

In  a  moment  he  was  striding  along  the  road,  soon 
commg  up  with  the  waiting  driver ;  the  latter  sprang 
to  the  box  "".s  his  passenger  approached.  Stephen 
walked  close  up,  his  hand  extended,  a  half  sovereign 
gleaming  in  it. 

"  You  can  go  back  to  Chester,"  he  said,  "  I  shall 
not  need  you  further." 

"  Thank  ye,  sir  ;  goin'  to  stay  'ere  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  Stephen  answered. 

"  Funny  choice  o'  Icii^in's,"  the  man  muttered,  as 
he  wrapped  his  rug  around  him,  "  but  there's  lots  as 
does  it — lots  o'  them  doesn't  come  back  after  you 
drives  'em  to  the  graveyard,"  he  mused  with  grim 
English  humour. 


The  night  went  past ;  and  Stephen  kept  his  vigil, 
sometimes  beside  the  silent  forms  that  linked  him  to 
the  absent  one,  sometimes  farther  afield  by  many  a 
hill  and  brook  and  tree  that  the  triendly  moon,  and  a 
harrowed  memory,  called  to  a  clearness  of  outline  he 
could  not  fail  to  recognize. 

Many  a  secret  vow,  and  many  a  muffled  prayer, 
and  many  a  gentle  tide  of  love,  coursed  through  his 
heart,  his  now  expectant  heart,  while  the  pulseless 
mounds,  and  the  sleeping  vales,  and  the  hills  she  loved 
so  well,  were  traversed  in  the  r.iicnt  li^'ht.  Expectant, 
we  have  said — for  wh.it  other  hands  could  have  laid 
that  fragrant  tribute  on  the  grave  ? 


The    PRODIGAL'S   CRUSADE     347 

The  sun  had  called  the  peasants  from  their  beds  an 
hour  or  so  before  Stephen  turned  in  to  the  open  door 
of  a  thatched  cottage  that  commanded  a  full  view  of 
the  little  graveyard.  A  kindly  faced  woman,  busy 
with  domestic  tasks,  bade  him  enter. 

"  You're  early  about,  sir,"  she  said.  "  Can  I  be  of 
any  service  to  you  ?  " 

For  answer,  Stephen  craved  the  favour  of  an  hour's 
rest.  "  I  couldn't  find  it  in  my  heart  to  sleep  last 
night,"  he  said.  "  This  is  my  first  visit  to  this  dis- 
trict—I was  at  the  cemetery  ;  and  I  found  the  graves 
of  some  who  were  very  dear  to  one  who  was— who 
is—very  dear  to  me,"  he  concluded  evasively,  "  and 
the  nignt  was  fine— and  I  recognized  some  of  the 
spots,  too;  but  I'm  feeling  a  little  exhausted  now,  and 
if  you  could  let  me  stretch  myself  for  an  hour  or 
so " 

The  woman  interrupted  him.  "  Certainly  I  can. 
There's  a  couch  in  that  wee  room  yonder,  and  you're 
welcome  to  it."  As  she  spoke,  she  picked  up  a  light 
shawl  that  lay  beside  her.  which  she  carried  in  and 
threw  at  the  foot  of  the  couch. 

"  E.xcuse  me,  sir,"  she  said,  as  she  returned.  ••  but 
are  you  not  from  America  ?  " 

'<  Yes,"  Stephen  answered  wonderinglj  ;  ^'  how 
could  you  tell  }     Were  you  ever  there  ?  " 

"  No,"  the  woman  responded,  sighing  as  she  spoke, 
"  but  my  heart's  often  there.  I  have  a  son  there,  sir, 
and  I  haven't  heard  from  him  fur  over  two  years 
now.  I  had  another  son.  and  he  was  buried  from 
his  vessel— lost  at  sea- isn't  it  an  awful  expression. 


348 


THE    UNDERTO[V 


sir  ?     But  he  doesn't  seem  as  much  lost  to  me  as 

Laban." 

"  Laban,"  Stephen  repeated,  "  Laban  who  ?     What 

is    hia    second    name?"     Something    of    eagerness 

marked  his  tone,  for  the  name   was   not  a  common 

one. 

"  Laban  Shortill — his   father  got  the  name  out  of 

the  Bible.     Why,  sir,  why?  "  and  the  woman's  cheek 

was  blanched  as  jhe  drew  nearer  Stephen,  roused  by 

the  expression  on  his  face. 

"  Laban  Shortill,"  the  latter  repeated.     "  Has  he 

dark  brown  hair,  with  a  lock  of  white  just  over  the 

left  temple?" 

The   woman   sank   into   the   chair,  deathly   pale. 

"  Oh,  God,"  she  faltered,  "  don't  disappoint  me— yes, 

sir,  he  was  only  ten  when  he  got  hurted  there  with  a 
horse."  Then  she  stopped,  her  eyes  appealing  to  him 
to  go  on. 

"  I  knew  him,"  Stephen  said  quickly,  steadying  his 
voice.  "  He's  coachman  for  one  of  my  friends  in 
Hamilton;"  and  as  he  spoke  the  woman  rose  and 
seized  him  by  the  hands,  as  if  she  would  wring  out 
information  of  the  absent  one.  Which  Stephen  was 
glad  to  give,  all  he  could,  finally  writing  down  the 
wanderer's  address  with  the  utmost  care ;  the  next 
half  hour  was  full  of  glad  emotion  to  them  both,  his 
own  loneliness  filling  his  heart  with  pity  for  this  fel- 
low sufferer. 

Then  she  insisted  on  his  lying  down,  which  he  was 
nothing  loath  to  do,  soon  falling  into  a  heavy  slumber. 
In  his  dream.he  stood  at  the  cottage  door  and  saw,  with 


■The    PHODIGAL'S    CRUSADE 


349 


enchanted  eyes,  the  graceful  figure  of  a  girl,  her 
golden  tresses  floating  in  the  wind  as  she  pressed 
toward  the  towenng  elm,  a  rich  cluster  of  flowers  in 
her  shapely  hands,  the  yearning  of  love  and  loneli- 
ness upon  her  face.  He  moved  uneasily  where  he 
lay,  and  the  woman  stood  over  him  exultant!)-,  al- 
most lovinc^ly ;  his  lips  moved,  burning  hot,  and  she 
heard  them  murmur  "  home  .  .  .  together." 
while  a  sweet  smile  played  upon  the  weary,  noble 
face.  She  bent  as  if  to  kiss  him,  confusing'  him  with 
the  wanderer  he  had  found — then  retrained,  and 
turned  to  tlie  room  without. 

A  icw  minutes  later  Stephen  appeared,  walking 
straight  to  the  door  and  looking  intently  across  the 
fields. 

"  Did  you  get  any  rest,  sir  ?  " 

"  Yes,  thank  you,  I  had  a  sleep.  Do  you  know 
the  graves  in  yonder  cemetery?" 

"  Some  of  them,  sir — I  have  a  little  girl  there." 

Stephen  paused.  "  You  don't  know  whose  plot 
that  is  at  the  foot  of  that  great  elm  there,  do  you  ?" 

The  woman  came  to  tlie  door.     ••  Yes,  sir,  I  do 

that's  the  Hasties'.  The  father  and  mother  lie  there  ; 
their  daughter  Hattie— she  was  the  loveliest  thing 
you  ever  seen,  sir — she  went  to  Lunnon  a  long  time 
ago  and  never  came  back  since.  Did  you  know 
them,  sir  ?  " 

"  Are  there  any  relatives  here  yet?"  Stephen  pur- 
sued, disregarding  her  question. 

"  No,  sir,  none  that  I  know  of.  But  I've  noticed  a 
strange  tJiing  lately.      I'wo  or  three  times  I've  seen 


350 


THE   UNDERTOW 


some  one,  a  young  lady,  going  there  in  the  early 
morning ;  and  she  had  flowers.  At  least,  as  far  as  I 
could  see,  I  was  sure  it  was  flowers  she  was  carrying. 
I've  often  wondered  if  ,  .  .  you're  looking  so 
faint,  sir — I'm  just  going  to  get  you  a  bite  of  break- 
fast ;  maybe  some  one  done  as  much  for  Laban,  poor 
boy.     What's  the  matter,  sir  ?  " 

For  Stephen's  face  was  ashen  white,  and  he  stood, 
no  word  escaping  the  pale,  trembling  lips.  His  hand 
was  outstretched,  rigid,  pointing  with  the  intensity  of 
death  across  the  fields,  his  great  eyes  fixed  and 
shining. 

She,  too,  looked — and  saw,  the  morning  light  glint- 
ing on  the  golden  hair,  a  woman's  form  slowly  wind- 
ing toward  the  stately  elm. 

She  turned  toward  Stephen — but  he  had  started 
on,  silent,  no  word  or  sign  coming  from  him,  his 
hand  outstretched  a  moment  longer  as  he  swiftly 
leaped  the  dyke  and  b^nt  his  way  straight  across  the 
fields. 

Not  once  were  his  eyes  withdrawn  from  the  form 
that  was  now  at  the  foot  of  the  tree.  It  was  the  same 
he  had  seen  in  his  dreams.  Midway  he  came  to  a 
stream  six  or  seven  feet  in  width — and  he  leaped  it 
as  though  it  had  been  the  furrow  of  a  passing  plough. 
Hih  lips  moved  slightly  as  he  walked,  in  praise  and 
prayer,  invoking  the  aid  of  God,  promising  his  soul 
to  the  new  life  that  would  begin  beneath  yon  near- 
ing  elm. 

And  in  that  hour  he  knew,  as  he  had  not  known 
before,  how  deep  tl.     wound  from  which  his  heart 


The   PRODIGAL'S   CRUSADE     3SI 

was  bleeding,  riven  by  some  knife  that  had  been 
whetted  in  Eternity.  An  infinite  desire,  pure  and 
holy,  bore  him  on.  That  the  wreck  of  time  was  to 
be  saved,  that  his  reprieve  had  come  at  last,  that  the 
long  eclipse  was  over,  that  life's  golden  fruitage  was 
not  to  be  torn  and  trampled  after  all — theso  blessed 
joys  of  love,  love  true  and  tender  as  the  heart  for 
which  it  longed,  flowed  hke  a  river  in  his  soul. 

As  he  stealthily  descended  the  stile  that  led  into 
the  little  cemetery,  he  saw  the  object  of  his  eager 
gaze  seated  on  the  grave.  Tenderly  she  untied  the 
cluster  of  flow'-s  in  her  hands,  proceeding  to  dis- 
tribute them  about  the  lowly  mound,  adjusting  them 
with  reverent  care.  A  swift  fear  flashed  through 
Stephen's  heart  as  he  crept  softly  toward  her,  the 
torture  of  the  thought  that  she  might  after  all  refuse 
to  return  with  him  overwhelming  him  for  a  moment ; 
only  for  a  moment,  for  he  felt  assured  that  his  pres- 
ence there,  hi^  long  journey,  his  loving  search,  would 
convince  her  of  the  reality  of  his  love.  Closer,  still 
closer,  he  crept,  her  face  still  turned  from  him,  her 
hair  a  shade  darker,  he  thought,  than  when  he  had 
seen  it  last,  the  sunny  hair  that  in  sunnier  da>-s  his 
hands  and  lips  had  loved  to  fondle. 

He  madi;  slmtjc  ^lifling  noise  ;  she  turned  her  head 
quickly.  As  the  fncc  swung  around  toward  him,  he 
outheld  'lis  arms,  making  as  if  to  run,  for  some  dis- 
tance still  lay  between.  But  the  f  icc:  turned  fully  on 
his  own — and  he  stood  as  still  a.s  the  sleepers  at 
his  feet,  his  hands  outstretched  in  horror,  his  face 
pallid  in  its  agony.     Then  siowly,  indifferent  to  the 


352 


THE    UNDERTOIV 


££^ 


Stranger's  wondering  gaze,  conscious  only  of  empti- 
ness and  loss  and  the  cruel  weight  of  hopes  that  had 
fallen  dead,  he  sank  down  upon  the  ground,  his 
anguish  gurgling  like  a  hemorrhage  through  parched 
and  quivering  lips. 

The  startled  stranger  rose  and  walked  quickly  to 
where  he  sat,  or  knelt,  upon  the  grass.  She  stood  a 
few  paces  away  for  a  minute  or  twr,  then  said 
gently : 

"  Are  you  ill,  sir?  Can  I  do  anything  for  yoi;  ?" 
He  waited  a  moment,  then  turned  his  staring  eyes 
upon  her,  looking  hungrily  at  her  face,  his  gaze 
deepening  into  darkness,  almost  resentment,  a.s 
though  that  face  were  counterfeit.  Then  he  spoke- 
but  the  words  could  not  be  heard,  and  he  buried  his 
face  in  his  hands  again. 

"  What's  the  matter,  sir  ?  "  she  pleaded.  "  Do  tell 
me." 

"  It's  the  hand  of  God,"  he  murmured,  but  the 
words  were  meant  for  himself  alone.  "  Oh,  Hattic, 
Hattic !  " 

"  Do  you  mean  Hattie  Hastie  ? "  the  soft  voice 
asked  timidly.  But  if  the  question  had  come  from 
mouldering  lips  beneath  him,  Stephen  Wishart  could 
not  have  sprung  more  quickly  to  his  feet,  nor  could 
the  banished  blood  have  flown  back  more  swiftly  to 
the  quivering  face.  He  leaped  to  the  girl's  side,  seized 
her  arm,  then  as  quickly  released  it,  her  eyes  arrested 
by  his  fiery  gaze. 

"  Yes,  Hattie  Hastie— that's  what  >-ou  said— what 
know  you  of  Hattie  Hastie?     In  God's  name  tell  me 


The   PRODIGALS   CRUSADE     is? 

what  you  know.     Is  she  here?     Has  slic  been  here? 
Have  you  icen  her?  " 

He  paused,  his  quick  breath  suspended  till  she 
should  make  reply. 

"  I  used  to  know  her,"  the  girl  said  (.juieti}'.  ••  I 
used  to  knt)w  her — but  she  went  away  to  L(.)iidMii. 
And  I  went  to  Liverpool  soon  alter.  I  ni  in  service 
there — and  this  is  the  first  time  I've  been  back." 

She  paused.  "  Ves,"  Stephen  urj^ed ;  "well,  '^o 
on — why  did  you  come  here  to-day  ?  Was  it  you 
who  put  the  tlowers  on  the  grave  >esterday  ? " 

"  Ves,  it  was.  I  put  those  tluw  ers  on  her  mother's 
grave  to-day,  too.  I  do  it  for  Matties  sake — she 
used  to  do  it  before  she  went  awa>-.  She  was  so 
good  to  us  ;  my  own  mother  tlied  a  'ittle  while  be- 
fore she  left — and  I  lattie  sat  up  with  her  four  nights 
before  she  died.  And  it  was  a  catching  disease,  too 
— it  was  scarlet  fever ;  my  little  brother  died  of  it 
just  before.  And  nobody  came  near  us  except  Hat- 
tie.  She  used  to  sing  to  mother— and  that's  all  I 
can  do  for  her  now.  There's  my  mother's  gra\e, 
that  one  with  the  rose-bush  at  the  fout.  And  when 
I  bring  flowers  for  mother  I  always  bring  them  for 
Hattie's,  too." 

The  girl  stopped,  and  the  eyes  that  looked  up  to 
Stephen  were  filled  with  tears. 

He  stood  silent,  listening  to  the  story,  touched  by 
its  beauty,  oppressed  by  the  doom  with  which  it 
swept  his  hopes  awa>-.  He  walked  muvely  back  and 
picked  up  his  hat. 

"  And  have  you  never  heard  from  her  since  ?  '  he 


354 


THE    UNDERTOl^ 


asked   in   a   frozen  voiCc\  half  turning   toward  the 
maiden  as  he  spoke. 

"  No,  I  never  did.  And  she  never  came  back^ — 
you  couldn't  tell  me  anything  about  her,  could  you, 

"  No,"  he  said  with  averted  face,  for  her  fondness 
touched  him.  "  I  can't  tell  you — here,  get  some 
little  keepsake  of  her  ;  "  he  slipped  a  sovereign  into 
her  hand,"  and  when'^ver  you  come  back  here  I'll  be 
glad  if  you  will  always  put  flowers  on  the  grave. 
Good-bye." 

The  gill  thanked  him,  and  Stephen  turned  away, 
beginning  to  retrace  his  steps  toward  Chester  as 
rapidly  as  his  heavy  heart  allowed.  He  saw  his 
kind  friend  of  the  cottage  gazing  toward  him  as  he 
strode  acr  iss  the;  fields  ;  but  he  turned  his  face  away 
and  walked  heavily  on.  Had  she  been  closer,  the 
woman  would  have  seen  a  face  like  to  the  face  of 
one  baptized  for  the  dead. 

Blessed  i'^  the  ministry  of  sorrow,  laying  upon 
the  heart  that  bears  '  the  burdens  of  another, 
healers  to  the  earlier  wound.  The  soul  that  echoes 
with  its  own  cry  is  ever  the  first  to  catch  the  whisper 
of  another's  grief,  stifling  the  louder  wail  vithin. 

Wherefore  Stephen  slackened  not  his  pace  till  he 
paused  before  the  door  of  the  telegraph  ofifice  in  the 
ancient  city,  and  the  beads  of  perspiration  that  his 
quick  walk  had  started  were  still  upo.i  his  brow  as  he 
wrote  a  cable  message  to  Laban  Shortiil : 

"  Your  mother's  suffering.     Write  at  once." 


1^ 


XXIX 


LONDON   /Ind    The    CHASE 

THAT  verj'  afternoon  found  StephLn  on  his 
way  to  London.  Pa^t  the  richc.-t  '■cciics  of 
English  oeauty,  past  shrine  after  hrine  of 
historic  interest,  his  train  whirled  him  toward  the 
waiting  city.  Stratford,  Warwick,  Kci.i!\  o"th,  Ox- 
ford, all  marvelled  at  his  contemptuo.;  h.i.tc.  Hi-. 
had  never  visited  them  ;  but  the  voicc  'Juil  .;ahfi.!  him 
to  tarry  was  faint  and  unavailing.  Enuuj^h  ^  Iram.v 
and  tragedy  and  knightly  war;  enough  ol  uiciplini. 
and  schooling  too,  deeper  than  the  classic  O.xtord 
could  impart,  were  mingling  in  his  life  already.  He 
scarcely  noticed  the  glory  of  the  day,  or  the  beauty 
of  the  varied  landscape,  or  the  splendour  oi  a  hun- 
dred mansions  as  he  passed ;  his  gaze  was  backward 
turned,  fastened  still  upon  two  half-neglected  graves 
that  owned  the  scanty  decoration  of  a  stranger's 
hand ;  for,  beside  them,  invisible  to  every  eye  but 
his,  was  yet  another  lowly  mound  above  which  his 
heart  bended  in  ^iicnt  anguish.  The  deepest  graves 
are  unseen  of  human  eye^,  nor  have  been  digged  by 
human  hands  ;  and  toward  these  shadowy  sepulchres 
there  winds  the  long  procession  of  those  who  go  to 
weep,  their  w;ii!ing  hca*-d  by  the  Eternal  Heart  alone. 
The  panting  engine  was  subbing  out  its  story  of 

355 


}'■>(> 


■THE    UNDERTOW 


exhaustion  as  Stephen  pressed  slowly  out  of  Padding- 
ton  station  to  the  ampler  spaces  of  the  Edgcware 
Road.  Mounting  a  bus,  he  looked  about  him  at  the 
tossing  crowds.  The  whole  spectacle  struck  him  as 
strangely  familiar,  as  it  does  all  returning  travellers  to 
the  mighty  Babj'lon  ;  the  separation  of  year^  dwindles 
to  the  absence  of  a  day.  Yet  his  reverence  for  Lon- 
don, his  surrender  to  its  magic  thrall,  seemed  to  be 
no  more.  He  recalled  faintly  the  day-dreams  of  early 
boyhood  and  the  place  that  London  ever  had  as  an 
enchanted  city;  but  now  he  found  himself  scanning 
its  living  tide  for  the  treasure  that  perchance  was  hid- 
den in  its  bosom. 

The  omnibus  rumbled  on,  and  soon  the  resonant 
voice  of  the  guard  announced  the  Marble  y\rch. 
Starting  quickly,  Stephen's  eye  fell  on  the  very  spot 
that  had  been  the  scene  of  his  encounter  with  the  in- 
fidel, and,  moved  by  an  impulse  he  was  careless  to 
examine,  he  descended  to  tlie  street  and  walked 
quickly  to  the  very  ground  on  which  he  ai:d  I  lattie 
had  stood  together.  Musing,  he  sat  down  on  an  ad- 
joining bench,  memory  flowing  again  around  the 
place ;  but  the  graceful  form  and  tlie  earnest  face 
were  wanting — and  he  soon  arose.  For  he  had  other 
work  on  hand  than  brooding  over  paradises  that  were 
lost ;  his,  rather,  to  regain  that  life  without  which 
there  could  be  no  further  paradise  for  him. 

With  this  resolve  he  started  on  and  had  made  his 
way  as  far  as  Oxford  Street,  along  which  he  hurried, 
glancing  indifferently  now  and  then  into  its  gorgeous 
shops,  but  ever  peering  eagerly,  yet  almost   hope- 


LONDON   And    The    CHASE        y-,-] 

lessly,  into  the  faces  of  the  passers-by.  1  Ic  knew 
that  this  street  would  lead  him  into  ifolborn  and 
thence  to  Gray's  Inn  Rt)ad,  near  to  whicli  ua>  the 
Army  home  that  had  sheltered  Hattie  on  that  mo- 
mentous ni'jht.  Fired  by  the  memory,  upborne  by 
the  hope,  lie  was  striding  with  swift  pace  when  sud- 
denly he  leaped  from  the  pavjment,  wheeling  quickly 
round  ;  for  a  strong  arm  was  round  his  neck  and  a 
familiar  voice  was  saying  : 

"  Howly  Moses,  if  this  isn't  foinding  a  needle  in  a 
haystack'  I  followed  ye  half  a  block  before  I 
struck." 

"  Father  O'Rourke  !  "  Stephen  gasped  in  astonish- 
ment, the  crowd  dividing  about  them  as  they  stwd. 
"  What  oil  earth  are  you  doing  here  ?  I  thought  you 
were  in  Hamilton." 

"  It's  not  in  1  lamilton  I  am,  my  boy— it's  in  Lon- 
don, begorra;  and  London's  the  place  for  me.  I 
came  away  a  litde  suddint— that  was  the  last  sermon 
I  preached,  the  toimc  I  saw  ye  in  St  Anne's.  I  saw 
ye,  my  boy— ye  came  in  late,  shame  on  ye.  But  ye 
paid  foine  attintion,  and  I'll  forgive  ye.  The  loikes 
of  us,  d'ye  sec,  can  get  away  widout  askin'  the  lave 
o'  the  congregation.  My  intintion  was  to  go  to 
Rome,  to  see  his  Holiness,  God  bless  him.  But  I've 
just  heard  tliat  poor  ould  Maloney  is  down  wid  paral- 
ysis ;  he's  been  care-taker  of  St.  Anne's  for  over  forty 
years.  And  they  say  the  ould  sinner's  aj^kin'  for  me 
noigiit  and  day.  When  will  the  father  be  back,  he 
keeps  sayin'— and  they  tell  me  there's  an  outbreak  of 
diphtheria  in   Lower  Town— three  children  dead  al- 


yy^ 


THE    UNDERTOW 


ready.  There's  not  been  as  much  sickness  in  Hamil- 
ton for  years,  they  say.  Come,  let's  be  movin' 
on. 

"  Well,"  Stephen  said  as  the  old  priest  paused, 
"  you're  not  going  back,  are  you  ?  " 

"  That's  the  very  thing  I'm  going  to  do.  I'm 
going  to  ould  Ireland  to  see  my  sister  first— then 
straight  home.  The  Pope'U  keep — and  Romt-  won't 
vanish  in  a  da.-.  To  tell  you  the  truth,  I  belave  ould 
Maloney's  dying  blessing'll  be  just  as  good  as  the 
Pope's.  Duty,  my  boy;  there's  always  blessing 
there.  Anyhow,  I'll  be  glad  to  get  back  to  wurrk  ; 
I  was  niver  meant  to  be  galivantin'  round  the  globe. 
Where  moight  ye  be  going  now  ?  " 

"  I'm  going  to — to  ask  for  a  friend,"  Stephen  an- 
swered hesitatingly. 

"  I'm  afraid  this'U  be  my  last  noight  in  London. 
I  tell  ye,  Wishart,  come  and  take  dinner  wid  me  to- 
noight — let's  dine  at  the  Holborn  ;  there  it  is  yonder, 
across  the  street — see  the  gold  letters  ?  Mate  me 
thereat siven-thirty.  Sure  it's  Froiday,  and  I'll  have 
to  lave  the  mate  alone  ;  but  I'll  ate  a  couple  o'  whales. 
We'll  have  some  plain  livin'  and  high  thinkin'. 
Siven-thirty,  moind.     Good-bye  just  now." 

The  noble  hearted  priest  departed  down  Chancery 
Lane,  and  Stephen  hailed  a  hansom,  ordering  the 
driver  to  hurry  to  the  Army  Refuge,  the  mention  of 
which  stirred  his  heart  to  its  profoundest  depths. 

One  by  one  familiar  places  went  flying  past.  Last 
came  the  fountain,  the  tiny  park,  the  bench  on  which 
they  had  sat  together  in  the  morning  sun.     Then  the 


LONDON   And    The    CHASE        3S9 

carriage  stopped  before  the  door  and  in  a  moment 
Stephen  was  within.  His  first  enquiry  was  lor  the 
Commander. 

"  She's  not  here,"  he  was  informed  briefly,  she's  in 
America — but  we  e.xpect  her  home  shortly  now." 
The  informant  wondered  at  the  shadow  that  fell  on 
Stephen's  face.  He  stood  irresolute.  Suddenly  he 
heard  a  voice  that  he  had  heard  before. 

"  Why,  Mr. — what's  the  name  now  ?  Oh,  yes,  Mr. 
Wishart!  Aren't  you  Mr.  Wishart  ?  I'm  so  ^Wad  to 
see  you  again.  It  was  you  that  cam-  here  with  that 
lovely  girl.     Come  away  in  and  sit  down. " 

"  Why,  Mrs.  Yuill,  is  this  you  ?  I'm  just  as  fjlad 
to  see  you — no,  thank  you,  I  can't  wait.  Hut  I 
wanted  to  ask  you  about  that  very  person.  I  wasn't 
sure  but  she  might  be  in  London— and  I'm  here  my- 
self as  you  see,"  he  added,  smiling,  "  so  I  thought  I 
vvnuld  call  and  enquire." 

He  looked  as  carelessly  as  he  could  into  the  ma- 
tron's kindly  face ;  a  glance  convinced  him  that  >he 
knew  more  than  he  had  allowed  for. 

"  Why,  Mr.  Wishart,"  she  began  nervously  and  in 
the  gravest  of  tones,  "  why,  Mr.  Wishart.  I  thought 
— I  thought  .  .  .  you  know  Miss  Hastie  was 
sent  on  to  Edinburgh  after  the  enlisted  here.  And 
.  .  .  didn't  you  see  her  there  afterward?  And 
we  were  all  told  that  she  .  .  ."  The  matron 
stopped,  embarrassed. 

"  Yes,"  Stephen  assented,  in  a  tone  scarcely  audi- 
ble, "  yes,  I  understand — and  she  is  not  here?  " 

"  No,"  the  woman  averred  delicately,  taking  the 


;:a^'! 


?6o 


THE    L\DER70W 


cue  antl  avoidin<^  further  questions,  "  did  you  fancy 
she  mi^ht  have  returned  to  Army  work  ?  " 

"  Ves,"  Steplien  answered  sadly.  "  I  fancied  per- 
haps she  had.  But  she  is  not  here?  No,  you're 
sure  of  that?  If  she  should  be  with  the  Army  any- 
where in  Lt)ndon,  huw  could  1  find  it  out?" 

The  matron  pondered  a  moment.  "  I  don't  think 
it'-  likely,"  she  said,  "  but  the  nearest  to  any  exact 
mformation,  you  could  get  at  the  Headquarters  on 
Victoria  Street — near  tlie  Mansion  House,  you 
know." 

Stephen  turned  toward  the  door.  "  I'll  try  there," 
he  said  heavily  ;  "  but  the  Commander's  not  in  Lon- 
don ?     Xor  the  General  ?  " 

Hoth  enquiries  were  answered  in  the  ner;ative,  the 
Commander  being  in  America,  the  General  visiting 
at  a  Scottish  country-seat. 


A  quarter  of  an  hour  later  Stephen  was  plying  his 
quest  at  Headquarters.  But  the  result  was  as  fruit- 
less; as  before,  and  he  trudged  back  with  leaden  heart 
to  keep  his  engagement  with  Father  O'Kourke  at  the 
Holborn  Restaurant. 

Whatever  the  altitude  of  the  thinking,  the  living 
was  certainly  plain  that  night ;  for  it  war,  Friday  to 
them  both. 

"  Come  away  and  have  a  smoke,"  ^'ather  O'Rourke 
said  when  they  had  finished,  "  it's  only  a  step  to  the 
Inns  of  Court  where  I  have  a  room  You're  toircd 
out,  my  boy.     Come  away  and  have  a  chat.  " 

Gaining  the  hotel,  but  a  few  minutes  had  passed  in 


LONDON   And    The    CHASE        ;hi 

general  conversation  when  Stephen  introduced  the 
subject  to  which  the  priest  had  referred  earlier  in  the 
day,  that  of  the  former's  visit  to  St.  Anne's.  Tim- 
idly, yet  with  kindling'  emotion,  he  told  the  wonder- 
ing priest  of  tlie  influence  his  sermon  had  had  upon 
hini,  of  the  new  vision  of  the  Saviour  that  had  been 
given  him  in  the  failing  light,  of  the  awakening  his 
soul  hatl  experienced  in  the  Romish  temple. 

The  priest's  face  was  aglow.    "  It's  the  Lord's  doing, 

my  boy,"  he  said  in  a  thrilling  voice,  ••  and  the  Lord 

works  in  all  the  churche.s — sometimes  in  none.     I'll 

tell  you  something  about  myself.      I  was  a  poor  stick 

of  a  priest  till  I  happened  one  night  to  hear  thai  great 

American  preacher,  Moody — you  know  him.     Well, 

I  got  a  blessing  tiiat  night  that'll  last  me  til!  1  (.lie.      \\y 

the  way,  I  heard  a  great  Protestant  preacher  here  last 

Thursday.     Be  sure  you  go  to  hear  him — right  dov.n 

here  on  the  Viaduct ;  were  you  ever  there  ?  " 

"  No,  I  don't  think  so.     What's  his  name  ?  " 

"  I  can't  just  recall  it— but  his  church  is  called  the 

City  Temple,  and  he  preaches  there  Thursdays  at 

noon.     A  funny  thing  happened  when  I  was  going 

in ;  just  as  I  got  to  the  door,  I  met  a  chap  I  used  to 

know   at    Maynooth— a    priest   too.     Well,  lie    was 

making  straight  for  the  Temple  door,  but  when  he 

saw  me,  he  got  ever  so  embarnussed.     y\fter  we  shook 

hands,  he  said,  •  Could  yoi-  tell  mc  where  I'd  fmd  the 

Brompton  Oratory?"     I  knew  what  he  was  after,  so 

I  winked  at  him.     •  I'm  not  sure  about  Brompton,'  I 

told  him,  '  but  if  you're  looking  for  oratory,  come  on 

in  with  mc."     Ami  I  tell  you  we  found  it.     That  man 


362 


THE    UNDERTOiV 


« 


m 


should  be  a  Cardinal.  It  was  great.  And  at  the 
close,  if  O'Gorman  and  I  weren't  standing  up,  both 
holding  on  to  one  hymn  book  for  dear  life  and  sing- 
ing away : 

<  Just  as  I  am  without  one  plea.' 

Then  a  lady  sang  a  beautiful  solo — haven't  heard  any- 
thing so  sweet  since  I  heard  your  wife." 

The  priest  paused,  looking  keenly  at  Stephen  ;  for 
the  expression  of  pain  upon  his  face  could  hardly  go 
unnoticed.  Father  O'Rourke  walked  to  the  door 
and  closed  it. 

"  Wishart,"  he  said  as  he  came  back,  "  there's  some- 
thing the  matter.  I  knew  it  this  morning  on  Oxford 
Street."  Then  he  sat  down  beside  Stephen,  his  arm 
about  the  bended  shoulders  as  the  burdened  man 
bowed  low  ;  and  gently,  lovingly,  he  wooed  the  whole 
sad  story  from  the  lonely  heart. 

True  symptom  of  the  chastened  spirit,  true  pledge 
of  his  redemption,  Stephen's  plaint  was  not  more  of 
his  later  sorrow  than  of  his  early  sin.  lilood-rdations 
seemed  the  two.  At  long  last  Stephen  said,  "  Do  you 
know,  I'vf  been  wondering  if  I  have  any  righi  to 
cont'T:o  'n  .,  e  ministry.  Do  you  think  Stich  an  one 
as  1  should  dare  to  preach  to  others  ?  " 

The  old  priest  fixed  his  eyes  earnestly  on  the  young 
minister's  face.  "  Don't  give  up  your  ministry,  my 
man.  This  is  going  to  make  you  into  a  true  priest 
of  God ;  you've  got  your  commission  now,"  and  his 
voice,  trembling  with  compassion,  fell  like  music  on 
Stephen's  troubled  heart. 


LONDON    And    The    CHASE       363 

"  But  you  know  I'm  not  worthy,"  the  latter  bcyan. 
"  Hush,"  interrupted  Father  O  Rourkc.  "  that  i  for 
the  Master  alone.  You've  got  a  great  chance  now, 
my  man— a  f;rj,-»t  chance,  and  don't  you  nii.^s  it. 
There's  nothing  so  sad  as  a  wasted  tragedy — or  a 
wasted  sin  ;  a  wasted  sin,  I  say.  Do  you  know  wliat 
I  can't  forgive  Judas  for — the  only  thing  I  ant  for- 
give him  ?  "  he  aske^i  abruptly. 

"  No,"  said  Stephen  ;  "  hij  treachery,  I  suppose." 
"  Not  that,  my  boy— I  could  ovcrlcjuk  that,  I 
think.  Hut  I  can't  forgive  him  this,  that  he  didn't 
turn  at  the  last  and  show  to  tne  ages  how  great  was 
the  grace  that  could  save  even  Judas.  He'd  have 
been  the  trophy  of  the  centuries,  I'aul  W(juldn't  have 
been  a  circumstance  to  Judas.  And  whenever  a  man 
like  you— or  me— has  his  feet  t^kcn  from  the  nun- 
clay,  he  owes  God  the  new  song  that  no  man  can 
sing  as  it  should  be  sung  till  he's  had  th.'  same  deliv- 
erance. So  go  you  on,  my  boy.  and  sing  that  son- 
every  chance  you  get;  sing  it  as  the  angels  cant,  and 
make  the  most  of  all  God's  done  for  ymi." 

Gradually  their  talk  turned  to  Hattie ;  and  the 
small  hours  of  the  morning  had  crejit  upon  them  be- 
fore Stephen  rose  to  go.  Arm  in  arm  the)-  walked 
a  little  way  ahjng  the  silent  street. 

"  Well,  I  guess  I'll  have  to  say  good-nit^Iit— and 
good-bye,"  the  priest  said.  "  but  I'll  not  forget  you. 
My  heart  will  be  searching  with  your  own,  I->om 
what  you  told  me.  I  think  it's  Edinburgh  she'd  make 
for — a  woman's  heart  ne\'er  forgets  tne  grove  where 
she  first  heard  the  love-birds  sing.      I  know    more 


364 


THE   UNDERTOW 


I 


t.  -t 


about  that  sort  of  thing  than  they  imagine  in  St 
Anne's.  Now  cheer  up,  my  boy.  Remember,  God's 
a  grcmt  detective ;  leave  the  case  with  Him  and  He'll 
find  her  for  you  yet." 

Then  they  parted  with  mutual  pledge  of  fidelity 
and  love,  each  going  his  priestly  way  and  each  a 
priest  unto  the  other — nor  by  different  hands  or- 
dained. 

Early  the  next  morning  Stephen  presented  himself 
again  at  the  Arr-iy  Headquarters  on  Victoria  Street. 
Recognized  and  admitted,  he  asked  the  ofilicor  who 
received  him  for  a  note  of  introduction  to  the  official 
in  command  of  the  Army's  forces  at  the  Scottish 
capital.  This  being  provided,  Stephen  thanked  the 
Commissioner,  adding :  "  Could  you  go  with  me 
down  to  the  Royal  Bank  of  Scotland?  It's  not  very 
far^^own  at  Bishopsgate  Within." 

The  Commissioner  complied  with  great  alacrity. 
"  I  could  go  right  now,"  he  said  with  a  cheerfulness 
worthy  of  their  destination.  Whereupon  they  set 
forth  together.  Arriving  at  the  bank,  Stephen  pre- 
sented his  letters  of  credit  and  identification. 

"How  much  do  you  wish  to  draw?"  asked  the 

clerk. 

"A  hundred  pounds,"  replied  Stephen.  Which 
were  soon  handed  out  to  him  in  spotless  notes,  mu- 
sically crisp. 

Stephen  drew  the  wide-eyed  Commissioner  into 
the  waiting  room.  "  I  want  you  to  take  this  money,' 
he  said  ;  "  and  I  want  it  spent  on  an  outing  in  the 


£ 


1^ 


LONDON  And    The    CHAsE       305 

country  for  as  many  poor  children  as  it  will  provide 
for.  The  time  and  the  place  to  be  determined  by 
yourselves.  1  went  with  a  lot  of  poor  Edinbiirgh 
children  once  for  a  day  in  the  country, "  he  added 
softly.  "  It  was  the  happiest  day  ol  my  lite — and  I 
want  to  coinmemurate  it  this  way." 

The  Comniiasioner  was  recovering  as  bc<^t  he  could. 
"  Hadn't  you  better  make  >t-  a  draft  payable  to  the 
General  ? "  he  suggested  first,  the  business  instinct 
uppermost.  "  I'd  sooner  not  take  the  money,  sir — 
you  can  get  the  draft  marked." 

"  All  right,"  agreed  Stephen,  as  he  called  a  clerk, 
handing  him  the  nvites  and  requesting  him  to  frame 
the  document. 

Then  the  Commissioner  opened  his  lips,  that  the 
avalanche  of  gratitude  might  flow 

Stephen  stopped  him.  "  I'm  doing  this  for  another 
man,"  he  said  ;  "  it's  trust  money  that  was  given  me 
by  an  old  farmer  in  Canada — he's  my  father — and  I 
know  he'd  approve  of  the  enterprise.  Will  you 
kindly  make  out  a  receipt  to  Robert  Wishart  ?  I'll 
just  mail  it  to  him  here." 

When  this  had  been  effected,  the  clerk  was  back 
with  the  draft,  which  the  Commissioner  reverently 
deposited  in  a  wallet  that  had  abundant  room.  The 
two  men  walked  together  out  of  the  bank,  parting  on 
Leadenhall  Street,  Stephen  glad  to  escape  from  the 
aforesnid  avalanche  which  the  gallant  soldier  seemed 
powerless  to  repress. 


The  days  came  and  went,  but  the  now  half-despair- 


366 


THE    UNDER70\V 


ing  searcher  still  lingered  amid  sad  familiar  sccncj>. 
Where  they  first  had  met — the  very  spot ;  the  little 
park,  the  fountain  whose  untiring  stream  flov.  cil  on, 
the  humble  room  in  which  he  first  hail  heird  her 
soul  in  song,  the  bench  in  H\de  Park  on  wh.ch  they 
held  together  roted — all  the^c  were  visited  again  with 
aching  heart,  o-s  though  he  were  looking  his  lost  upon 
them,  even  as  mayhap  he  had  looked  his  last  on  her 
whose  memory  lent  them  their  plaintive  beauty. 

The  hope  that  finally  began  to  languish  in  Lon- 
don was  turning  on  swilt  wing  to  Edinburgh,  when 
even  now  it  had  purposed  to  rebuild  its  nest.  And  llie 
north-bound  train  that  leape<l  outward  from  King's 
Cross  one  darksome  night  bore  among  its  passengers 
the  unwearied  man  whose  heart,  now  high  with 
hope,  now  sickened  with  despair,  uos  stiU  resolute 
upon  its  sacred  purpose. 

Cramped  and  weary,  the  chill  air  of  Scotia's  cher- 
ished city  smote  him  as  he  alighted  the  ne.xt  morning 
at  W'avcrl)'  stition.  He  shivered  as  he  walked  along 
the  platform;  for  Edinburgh's  climate  was  sent  upon 
it  to  wring  from  its  idolatrous  inhabitants  the  admis- 
sion, reluctant  though  it  be,  that  they  who  seek  an- 
other city,  even  a  heavenly,  have  anything  to  gain. 

Stephen  was  standing,  intent  upon  the  stream  of 
luggage  from  which  he  would  extract  his  humble 
share,  when  a  hand  was  suddenly  laid  upon  hi-  shoul- 
der, and  a  rich  voice  accosted  him : 

"  Look  here,  aren't  you  on  the  wrong  side  of  the 
Atlantic  ?  "  He  turned  to  look  into  the  strong  face 
of  the  great  preacher,  the  same  whose  narrative  ol 


LONDON   And    The   CHASE 


Pi 


the  tearful  bootblack — and  whose  sermon  on  "  The 
outjacobcd  Jacob  ' — had  left  so  deep  an  improMon 
on  StL-phen's  mind.  Warmly  he  greeted  the  vener- 
able orator,  his  ver\-  presence  a  strcnt,'tli  and  comfort 
to  the  lonely  man. 

"  I  intended  calling;  ui.  you  tliis  vi t)'  day,"  Stephen 
exciainicd  ,  "  are  >'ju  still  at  Charlotte  Square  ?" 

"  Yes,  but  I'm  sorry  I  won't  be  at  home.  I'm  going 
to  IJcruick  ;  my  train  leaves  in  a  few  minul  .  now. 
liut  you're  the  very  man  I  wanted  ti'  see.  I've 
sometliing  of  importance  to  tell  you— step  over 
here.  " 

They  moved  aside  from  the  stream  of  hurrying 
pa.-..-<engei  ~.  "  Mr.  VVishart,  thi^  seem-,  nolhni;^  less 
than   providential.     I   was    just  womlenng  whom    I 

should  a>k  to  preach  in side  I-ree  Lluirch   next 

Sabbath;  they're  vacant — antl  I'm  the  Muderatir. 
As  you  know,  it's  one  of  our  strongest  churche-.. 
But  the  wonderful  thing     bout  it  all  is  this — tliey'vo 

been   enquiring      tr    you.     Professor ,  <it    tlie 

New  College,  n  )mmended  you ;  he  remembered 
your  brilliant  career.  And  stranger  still,  the  very 
la.-<t  Sabbath  you  preached  in  your  church  at  home, 
two  of  their  elders  who  were  touring  Canada  hap- 
l)ened  t<i  be  tli  re.  And  they  brought  back  a  gtcat 
report  of  the  ^ipes  of  Kschol — I  shan't  tell  >ou 
wliat  tiiey  .-.aid.  Hut  the  church  has  had  its  e\e  on 
you  ;  they  spoke  to  me  about  you.  Of  course  I 
presumed  you  were  three  thousaiul  miles  away — 
but  here  you  are'  Xow  Mr.  \\'!-;hart,  you'll  preach 
to    them    ne.\t    ^>abbath  ;  it   seems    an    open    door, 


k 

I 
till 


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'«a»-3r»  t-i-wssw  sets 


368 


THE    UNDERTOIV 


doesn't  it?  I'll  have  to  run — ^just  two  minutes  left. 
But  mark  that  down  for  next  Sabbath — and  I'll 
notify  their  session  clerk;  they'll  be  delighted. 
Good-bye."  And  the  master  of  assemblies  hurried 
to  his  train. 

Stephen  made  his  way  out  of  the  station  up  to 
Princes  Street,  past  Scott's  monument,  along  the 
comely  thoroughfare  to  the  side  street  that  led  up  to 
the  lodging  house  that  had  been  his  home  before. 
Within  which  he  found  the  selfsame  landlady,  who 
welcomed  him  with  delight,  ushering  him  to  the 
very  room  he  had  occupied  so  long. 

The  tidings  he  had  just  received,  grateful  as  they 
would  have  been  in  other  days,  seemed  strangely 
unimportant  now.  Indeed,  his  mind  speedily  dis- 
missed the  matter,  so  utterly  was  it  occupied  with  a 
different  quest.  One  hour  later,  he  was  closeted 
with  the  commanding  officer  of  the  Scottish  staff  of 
the  Salvation  Army. 

"  I've  come  to  ask,  sir,  if  you  have  in  your  ranks 
— or  anywhere  in  your  service — a  lady  that  I  know 
was  once  with  you  here.  Her  name  is  Hattie  Hastie 
— or  possibly,  Mrs.  Wishart,  Mrs.  Stephen  VVishart; 
you  might  look  for  both,"  he  added  earnestly. 

"  I  think  I  should  be  able  to  let  you  know,  sir," 
the  man  rejoined ;  "  we  keep  a  fairly  exhaustive  list. 
Was  your  friend  an  officer  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I'm  almost  sure  she  was  one  of  the  subor- 
dinate officers — I'm  sure  of  it,  in  fact.  I've  heard 
her  say  so." 

The  officer  rang  a  bell,  gave  a  brief  order,  and 


LONDON   And    7 he    CHASE        jifx) 

soon  a  ponderous  book  was  placed  before  him.  Ad- 
justing his  glasses,  he  scanned  it  for  several  minutes, 
turning  from  page  to  page.  Suddenly  he  paused 
and  looked  up,  struck  with  the  white  rigid  face 
before  him. 

"  Would  you  know  Ikt  signature  if  you  saw  it  ? " 
he  asked. 

But  Stephen  made  no  answer  except  to  rise, 
almost  spring,  from  his  seat,  bending  over  the  book, 
his  lips  trembling,  his  eyes  leaping  hither  and  thither 
over  the  page. 

"  There,  sir,"  said  the  man, "  there  in  the  right 
hand  corner,"  placing  his  finger  on  the  name. 

"  Yes,  yes,"  the  other  cried  in  feverish  haste,  "  yes, 
I  see  it — that  is  her  writing.  Where  can  I  find  her, 
sir — of  course  she  must  be  here.  Where  shall  I  find 
her  ?  I  wanted  to — to  see  her,"  he  exclaimed  with 
passionate  simplicity,  no  longer  seeking  to  conceal 
the  flame  that  leaped  from  lip  and  eye. 

"  Please  be  seated,  sir,"  the  man  urged,  lookmg 
keenly  at  him.  "  I'll  try  and  find  that  out  for  you," 
and  he  touched  the  bell  again. 

"  Send  Captain  Latham  to  me,"  he  ordered  the 
messenger. 

"  Would  you  please  let  me  know,  Captain,"  he  said 
a  moment  later,  "  where  this  lady  is  to  be  found  ? 
This  gentleman  wants  to  know.  Look,  here's  the 
name,"  and  the  two  men  bent  over  the  book  to- 
gether. 

Stephen  stood  a  little  apart,  his  hands  tightly 
clenched,  his  lip  caught  between  his  teeth,  his  whole 


570 


THE    UNDER-JOH' 


th  f 


soul  in  a  ferment  of  longing.  For  she  was  here, 
somewhere  here — that  much  was  certain  ;  and  he 
would  see  her — not  to-morrow — or  some  later  day — 
but  to-day,  this  very  day!  His  brain,  tired  and 
dazed,  swam  with  the  rapturous  thought. 

Suddenly  there  came  a  knell  of  words ;  his  eyes 
closed  and  he  sank  dumbly  into  a  chair. 

"  I  knew  there  must  have  been  a  mistake  some- 
where," he  heard  Latham  sa}ing  in  a  low  tone  to 
the  other ;  "  that's  an  old  list  you've  got — you  didn't 
look  at  the  date.  That  name,  Hattie  Hastie,  isn't  to 
be  found  over  here,"  he  added,  turning  over  the 
pages,  their  cruel  rasping  falling  like  the  stroke  of 
fate  on  poor  Stephen's  tortured  heart. 

His  first  informant  looked  up  in  a  moment  "  I'm 
afraid  we  can't  give  you  any  information,  sir. 
There's  no  trace  of  her  since  she  left  us.  It  seems 
Miss  Hastie  left  for  America  more  than — why  sir, 
what's  the  matter  ?  You're  white  as  death,  sir. 
Wait  a  minute  till  I     .     .     ." 

But  Stephen  heard  no  more.  Blind  and  broken, 
he  groped  for  the  door  and  in  a  moment  was  out 
upon  the  street,  walking  on,  he  knew  or  cared  not 
whither,  struggling  still  to  cling  to  God,  now  and 
then  clutching  wildly  toward  the  hope  that  had  fled 
shrieking  from  his  heart. 

It  was  the  following  Monday  morning ;  and  Ste- 
phen sat  in  his  lonely  room,  his  thoughts  busy  with 
the  days  and  nights  of  suffering  that  had  passed  since 
his  outstretched  arms  had  been  cheated  of  the  treas- 


LONDON  And    The    CHASE 


?7« 


ure  he  had  thought  so  near.  How  they  had  passed, 
he  scarcely  knew — for  his  heart  was  numb.  Vet  the 
despairing  search  had  been  maintained,  in  a  drear 
unconscious  sort  of  way,  so  difificult  was  it  to  re- 
nounce his  confidence  that  she  was  somewhere 
within   his  reach. 

Then  the  Sabbath  had  come  on ;  and  he  had 
preached  twice  in side  Free  Church,  to  the  en- 
chantment and  delight  of  its  rich  and  cultured  con- 
gregation. A  great  throng  had  filled  the  splendid 
edifice ;  but  the  vastness  of  his  audience  and  the 
grandeur  of  the  church,  and  the  splendour  of  the 
music,  had  made  but  littL-  impression  on  Stephen 
Wishart.  Unconscious  of  it  himself,  he  had  been 
girded  for  his  work  by  the  hands  of  sorrow,  his  lips 
touched  by  that  living  coal,  his  thought  and  speech 
enriched  by  simplicity  of  motive  and  earnestness  of 
heart.  He  knew  not  with  what  power  his  eloquent 
and  burning  words  had  thrilled  his  hearers,  the 
majesty  of  the  gospel  message  captivating  their  hearts 
as  it  possessed  his  own. 

But  he  did  know,  this  Monday  morning,  that  the 
echoing  bell  beneath  announced  the  presence  of  a 
committee  from  the  church  whose  pulpit  he  had  oc- 
cupied the  day  before.  They  had  informed  him  of 
their  intention  to  wait  upon  liim. 

The    grave    and    responsible    representatives    of 

side  Free  Chui        :id  not  require  long  to  inform 

him  of  their  mission.  The  congregation,  so  far  as 
they  could  learn,  were  a  unit  in  his  favour;  their  pur- 
pose was  to  ascertain  whether  or  not  they  might  pro- 


--It 


37- 


THE    UNDERTOIV 


ceed  with  the  formality  of  a  call.  A  noble  church, 
an  ample  stipend,  a  generous  vacation,  a  loyal  and 
superior  people,  an  inviting  field  for  toil,  were  the 
features  they  begged  to  submit  for  his  consideration, 
themselves  urging  that  it  might  be  favourable. 

Stephen's  response  was  as  cordial  as  it  was  brief 
and  simple.  A  splendid  independence,  which  his  in- 
ter iewers  could  not  fail  to  note,  deepened  the  ear- 
nestness of  their  appeal.  To  all  of  which  Stephen's 
answer  was  a  quiet  promise  that  he  would  give  them 
his     'cision  in  a  few  days  at  the  longest. 

His  visitors  departing,  Stephen  resumed  the  reverie 
they  had  interrupted,  this  new  claim  upon  him  giving 
it  a  wider  range.  Yet  he  himself  was  compelled  to 
note,  and  with  no  little  wonder,  how  slightly  he  was 
impressed  by  the  mere  attractiveness  of  the  proposi- 
tion that  had  just  been  made.  He  recalled,  with  a 
pathetic  sort  of  humour,  how  intoxicated  he  would 
once  have  been  by  such  a  prospect  as  now  seemed 
powerless  to  allure.  Professional  distinction,  social 
rank,  almost  certain  popularity,  financial  comfort — 
these  had  still  a  glittering  light ;  but  he  knew  the  dif- 
ference now  between  the  glittering  and  the  golden. 
How  paltry  seems  the  treasure,  erstwhile  precious,  to 
a  man  who  is  struggling  for  liis  hfe ! 

Besides,  his  vision  vvas  growing  clearer.  Clarified 
by  sorrow's  ministry,  his  eyes  were  coming  to  recog- 
nize realities,  his  mind  dimly  groping  toward  the  mas- 
ter truth  that  duty,  and  not  happiness,  is  the  end  of 
hfe.  The  hope  of  happiness,  the  purpose  to  puioue 
it  till  it  could  no  more  elude  him,  was  fast  ebbing 


LONDON   And    The    CHASE        37; 

from  his  mind ;  and  in  its  place  was  wellinj^  up  a  tide 
of  noble  longinj,',  of  high  resolve  to  take  up  his  cross 
and  bear  it  to  the  end.  Even  if  his  was  to  be  a  w  id- 
owed  race,  he  would  strive  to  run  it  patiently,  re- 
membering the  Man  of  Sorrows,  gleaning  through  his 
tears  an  ampler  harvest  than  the  scant  sickle  of  hap- 
piness had  ever  reaped. 

His  reflections  were  disturbed  by  a  gentle  knock; 
a  servant  opened  the  door  and  handed  him  a  letter. 
He  checked  an  exclamation  of  surprise  as  he  remarked 
the  foreign  stamp,  quickly  recalling  that  he  had  given 
his  father  his  old-time  Edinburgh  address. 

To  his  amazement,  he  saw  the  Morven  postmark 
on  the  letter.  Eagerly  he  tore  it  open  and  plunged 
into  its  contents,  a  sense  of  awe  upon  him,  as  though 
the  Master  of  the  harvest-field  were  standing  in  the 
room.  For  the  letter  went  on  to  say  that,  having  se- 
cured his  address  from  his  father,  the  elders  of  the 
Morven  congregation  wished  to  inform  him  of  the 
vacancy  that  had  suddenly  fallen  on  their  church  ; 
moreover,  that  their  people  had  not  forgotten  their 
former  choice,  and,  knowing  that  he  had  resigned  his 
charge  in  Hamilton,  were  anxious  to  ascertain  if  they 
might  now  hope  to  secure  him  as  their  minister. 
They  were  conscious  of  the  apparent  presumption, 
of  the  comparative  obscurity  of  their  church,  etc., 
etc. ;  but  the  feeling  was  unanimous  and  strong,  and 
the  leading  of  Providence  would  seem  to  indicate  that 
they  at  least  should  lay  their  case  before  him.  Would 
he  be  so  kind  as  to  reply  at  his  earliest  convenience  ? 
Should  he  entertam  their  proposal,  might  not  arrange- 


374 


THE    UNDERTOW 


ments  for  his  settlement  be  completed  in  his  absence? 
And  more  there  was,  of  equally  earnest  tone. 

Stephen  read  the  letter  again  and  again.  It  was 
the  same  hand,  he  noted,  as  had  penned  the  appeal 
of  so  long  ago,  an  appea!  so  condescendingly  de- 
clined. But  how  different  the  heart  that  hearkened 
now  to  their  reuttered  call !  For  Stephen  felt  almost 
a  transport  of  joy,  as  though  he  had  been  called  to 
the  ministry  anew.  He  remembered,  too,  sweet  soft- 
ness in  the  thought,  the  yearning  of  an  absent  one 
for  the  very  field  of  labour  that  was  now  within  his 
reach  ;  and  the  humble  folk  of  the  distant  parish  grew 
precious  in  his  sight. 

No  sense  of  sacrifice,  no  misgiving  as  to  duty,  no 
rival  claim  of  statelier  church,  shadowed  the  eager 
gladness  with  which  he  took  up  his  pen ;  nor  did  he 
lay  it  down  till  he  had  written  the  Morven  session  his 
full  acceptance  of  the  call,  promising  them  an  un- 
stinted ministry,  asking  their  unstinted  prayer. 

As  he  posted  the  letter  that  was  to  gladden  the 
hearts  beyond  the  sea,  Stephen's  mind  reverted  to  the 
visit  he  and  Hattie  had  made  to  the  placid  country 
scenes  that  were  now  to  be  mingled  with  his  life.  A 
quick  association  of  ideas  called  up  before  him  a  day 
of  kindred  memories,  sweet  and  rural,  though  more 
sacred  far.  He  stood  still  for  a  moment,  looked  at 
his  watch,  then  started  hurriedly  toward  the  Waverly 
station.  An  uncontrollable  impulse  bore  him  on. 
He  was  just  in  time  to  purchase  a  ticket  to  Kimlachie, 
and  board  the  train  that  steamed  out  of  the  crowded 


'-^-'i 


LONDON   And    The    CHASE        575 

station,  a.s  it  had  departed  once  before  with  its  load 
of  raptured  misery. 

Soon  he  stood  where  he  had  stood  long  ago  among 
the  boisterous  children  from  the  slum,-,,  the  .-.unlit 
woods  still  decking  the  noble  hill,  as  on  that  golden 
summer  day  that  had  poured  the  blessedness  of  heaven 
into  his  brimming  heart. 

He  walked  reflective  across  the  fields,  so  vivid  when 
he  saw  them  last  with  their  stream  of  happy  waifs. 
Once  and  again  he  caught  the  thrilling  sight  of  a  busy 
flitting  form,  once  and  again  he  saw  the  way  ward  hair 
and  glowing  face  of  her  who  had  moved  as  ([ueen 
amongst  them  all.  Hut  the  laughter  died,  and  the 
vision  vanished,  and  the  hills  were  bare. 

Reverently  he  made  his  way  into  the  woods.  A 
sort  of  awe  possessed  him,  as  though  venturing 
within  some  great  cathedral  whose  paling  grandeur 
waits  as  vassal  on  the  silent  form  before  the  altar, 
vested  in  statelier  pomp.  Of  a  sudden,  he  felt  that  he 
should  walk  no  farther  ;  and,  lifting  up  his  eyes,  he 
saw  the  grassy  mourn'  -  now  life's  altar  place 

to  him  forever. 

But  no  trembling  f     r.  J  on  it.     The  slanting 

sun  still  kissed  the  qui.^....g  leaves;  the  gentle  wind 
still  went  its  whispering  way;  the  faithful  flowers 
still  plied  their  lonely  tack  of  love— but  the  soul, 
the  soul  of  things,  was  gone. 

Still  standing,  still  with  uncovered  head,  his  broad- 
ing  heart  gleaned  the  place  of  its  every  memory, 
laying  up  treasure  against  the  famine  that  must  fall 
when  he  went  his  way. 


^76 


THE    UNDFR70iy 


Timidly,  faintly,  he  called  licr  name. 

"  Hattic,  my  Hattie."  But  the  cry  was  really 
meant  alone  for  God  and  no  human  voice  made 
ansutr. 

Heavily,  as  men  turn  from  the  grave  where  their 
children's  mother  lies,  he  began  his  way  backward 
to  the  open,  the  heartless  sunbeams  laughing  about 
him  a    he  went. 

He  had  barely  emerged  from  the  sheltering  woods 
when  he  heard  the  sound  of  voices.  Looking 
upward  to  the  brow  of  the  adjoining  hill,  he  ob- 
served two  men  walking  arm  in  arm  tov  '>rd  the  dis- 
tu..it  mansion.  The  one  nearest  him,  he  knew  at  a 
glance.  That  stalwart  form  would  be  recognizable 
anywhere.  It  was  no  other  than  the  General,  his 
uniform  distinguishable  from  where  Stephen  stood. 
The  great  soldier  looked  even  younger,  more  martial, 
more  alert  than  when  he  had  seen  him  last,  that 
memorable  night  on  which  he  first  had  heard  his 
darling's  voice  in  song. 

Quickening  his  pace,  he  was  soon  sufficiently 
close  to  attract  the  attention  of  the  General  and 
his  friend.  The  former's  eye  fell  upon  him  first, 
and  Stephen  r  sed  his  hat,  advancing  with  out- 
stretched hand. 

"  Let  me  see,"  said  the  General  as  he  returned  the 
salutation,  "  I  surely  know  your  face — ^just  a  minute 
now;  don't  tell  me.  Why,  certainly,  you're  the 
young  minister  I  met  once  at  our  Poplar  barracks  ;  I 
remember  you  distinctly  now.  It  was  a  lad)-  friend 
of  yours   that   sang   that  night,   and  I  don't  know 


mmmTST'WWW- 


TW 


-iS 


LONDON   And    The    C  H  A  S  i:        ^77 

when  I  have  heard  such  a  glorious  voice.     I'm  ^\,<d 
to  sec  you.      Huw  ^ocs  the  battle  ?  " 

Stephen  aii-wered  briell}',  then  enquired  for  the 
General's  health. 

"Oh,  I'm  .hi  ri-ht— have  no  time  foranythinjT ^U-. 
E.xcuse  inc.  1  ■>huuid  iiave  introduced  you.  This  is 
my  friend  and  faithful  ally,  Sir  I  lector  Sinclair—he's 
got  a  hi<;hcr  title  than  tliat  too,"  he  added,  as  the  men 
shook  hands.  "  He's  one  of  our  best  advisers  ;  and 
he  gives  us  the  freedom  of  the^e  heavenly  fielus  every 
summer  for  our  waifs. ' 

Stephen  expressed  his  pleasure  at  making  so 
worthy  an  acquaintance  ;  the  latter  invited  luin  to 
accompany  them  to  the  arbour  and  join  them  in  a  cup 
of  tea.  As  they  walked  along,  Stephen  ventured  to 
enquire  for  the  Commander,  expressing  his  disappoint- 
ment that  she  was  in  America. 

"  li  you're  spared  to  reach  that  summer-house 
yonder,  I  expect  you'll  find  her  waiting  there  for  us," 
said  the  General  laughing.  •■  She  landed  at  Glasgow 
last  r.  "-t— at  Greenock  rather— and  came  on  here 
to  meet  me  this  morning.  It  doesn't  take  long  to 
trade  continents  nowadays." 

Stephen  concealed  the  emotion  that  h    "-^It  as  he 
looked  again,  which  he  did  a  few  minute        or,  upon 
the  winsome    countenance  that    so  vividly  recalled 
another.     Presented    to    the    gracious   hostess,   the 
httle  company  gathered  about  the  table. 
Presently  the  Commander  began  archly  : 
"  Mr.  Wishart,  I've  a  little  crow  to  pick   vith  you." 
"  A  very  black  one  ?  "  responded  Stephen. 


!^>i*l''V-;^;;S^ 


w^<mm'^^ 


378 


TH£    UNDERTOW 


&** 


"  Yes,  pretty  black.  Theft's  a  dreadful  thing,  Mr. 
Wishart— and  however  did  you  dure  to  steal  away 
that  lovely  girl  they  all  admired  so  in  Edinburgh  ? 
Oh,  you  needn't  blush  like  that ;  I  know  all  about  it." 

Stephen's  reply  was  inarticulate,  and  the  blush  was 

paling  fast. 

"  It  would  just  serve  you  right,"  the  Commander 
went  on,  "  if  I  wouldn't  tell  you  the  little  bit  of  news 
1  have.  I'l^^pecially  as  you  should  have  brought  her 
with  you — were  you  afraid  we'd  keep  her  ?  But  I'll 
forgive  you— a  woman  can't  keep  news  anyhow. 
Well,  it's  this— I  e  iw  her  in  New  York.  I  was  driv- 
ing  on  Broadway  the  day  before  I  sailed,  away  down 
near  the  City  Hall,  and  I  saw  her  from  the  carriage 
window  as  plain  as  could  be.  I  made  the  driver  stop 
at  once— she  hadn't  seen  me— and  I  got  out  and 
hurried  to  where  I  saw  her.  But  there  was  such  a 
crowd,  and  she  had  gone  and     ..." 

The  Commander  stopped,  amazed— for  Stephen's 
desoerate  struggle  for  control  was  over.  He  was 
standing  up.  his  arm  half  outstretched,  while  th-  cup 
rocked  in  its  saucer,  the  hot  'ea  spilling  unnoticed 
on  his  hand.  His  face  was  blanched  and  his  eyes 
were   staring  at  the  Commander  with  glassy  steadi- 

ness. 

"  You  saw  her  ?  "  he  whispered  in  a  ghostly  voice, 
"  you  saw  her,  did  you  say  ?  And  are  you  sure  it 
was— it  was— my  wife?"  he  added,  coming  closer 
to  her,  his  hand  outstretched  as  before. 

"  Oh,  do  tell  me  .  .  ."  began  the  Commander, 
"  what  can  there ?  " 


LONDON   And    The    CHASE        r,9 

"  Are  yuu  sure  it  w^s  my  wife  ?  "  Stcpljcn  br-ke 
in  again  his  voice  loud,  almost  stormy. 

•'  Yes,  Mr.  Wishart."  the  other  said  quickly,  the 
colour  retreating;  from  her  check;  "it  was  liatlic 
Ha^tie — isn  t  she  j  )ur  wife  ?  " 

Stephen's  >mile  was  pitiful  to  behold,  so  strong,  so 
anguished  was  it. 

"  Yes,  please  God,"  he  answered  in  a  tone  so  low 
that  thej-  could  scarcely  hear,  ••  but  you  didn't  finil 
her?  You  didn't  speak  to  her?  You  don't  know 
where  she  is?"  he  cried,  the  voice  ri;,nig  agam,  ind 
the  questions  spurting  from  his  lips  as  if  h  no  voli- 
tion of  his  own.  He  laid  his  cup  and  saucer  on  the 
tray,  but  his  eyes  never  moved  from  the  Comm;inder's 
face. 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Wishart,  I'm  so  sorry— of  course,  I 
don't  understand !  No,  I  couldn't  find  her ;  I've 
told  you  all  I  know."  and  the  words  were  gentle,  full 
of  pity.  "  Hut  I'm  sure  she  is  in  New  York — at 
least,  I'm  sure  she  was  there  ten  days  ago." 

Then  a  dense  silence  fell  upon  them  all.  Stephen's 
eyes  were  far  away,  fi.xed  upon  a  distant  fringe  of 
woods.  Then  they  turned  toward  the  now  setting 
sun,  looki.ig  far  beyond  it,  searching  the  farmost 
west  that  held  the  treasure  of  his  life. 

Suddenly  he  turned  to  his  silent  company  and 
began  to  bid  them  a  grave  farewell.  His  ho-t  re- 
monstrated gently ;  "  W'c  would  have  been  glad  to 
have  you  stay  till  morning,"  he  said  earnestly. 

"  Forgive  mc,  my  friends,"  answered  Stephen, 
looking  toward  them  all,  "  I  can't  tell  you  what  is 


fP^^- 


\ii\'i'^W^^  ^'  ^ 


380 


THE    UNDERTOW 


in  my  heart.  Perhaps  you  know.  But  you  will 
let  me  go  without  further  words — I  shall  not  rest 
anywhere  till  the  morning  comes." 

Then  they  every  one  spoke  some  farewell  word  of 
comfort — except  the  General  alone,  who^e  quiver- 
ing lips  refused. 


XXX 


By    WAY    of    7 he    CROSS 

THE  next  morning  found  Stephen  in  Liver- 
pool, and  at  the  booking  office  of  the  W'liitc 
Star  hne.  An  intermediate  passage  was  tiie 
best  he  could  secure  on  the  crowded  vessel,  but  this 
mattered  little, since  the  second  cabin  is  not  one  whit 
less  tleet  than  the  saloon.  Neither  the  one  nor  the 
other  was  swift  enough  for  the  silent  traveller  who 
smiled  with  sad  contempt  at  the  boisterous  eagerness 
of  the  men  who  gambled  daily  on  the  mileage ;  for 
he  knew  the  deeper  hazard  of  one  whose  own  soul's 
happiness  was  the  stake. 

The  first  day  at  sea  was  spent  in  unbroken  pon- 
dering. Hope  was  reviving  in  his  heart ;  lOr  had  he 
not  met  one  who  had  certainly  seen  her  face  ?  Per- 
haps, too,  the  sense  of  homegoing  upheld  him  more 
than  he  realized.  He  found  himself  counting  eagerly 
on  seeing  Reuben  and  his  aged  father  once  again. 
The  thought  of  Reuben  started  a  little  stream  of  joy 
in  his  troubled  mind,  and  he  took  again  from  his 
pocket  the  letter  from  Ki  sie  that  had  reached  him 
but  an  hour  before  he  left  Edinburgh  for  the  Souih- 
ern  port.  It  had  had  little  consideration  amid  the 
ensuing  excitement,  but  now  he  pondered  its  con- 
tents with  subdued  and  thankful  gladness. 

For  Bessie  had  written  the  momentous  news  that 
she  and  Reuben  were  at  last  man  and  wife,  quietly 

381 


382 


THE    UNDERTOIV 


married  by  Mr.  Shearer  at  the  country  church. 
Stephen's  heart  melted  within  him,  the  tears  refusing 
to  be  bidden  back,  as  he  read  Bessie's  story  of  how 
she  had  insisted  on  telling  everything  to  Reuben,  all 
about  her  fickleness,  her  childhood's  love  for  his 
younger  brother,  her  weakness  in  cherishing  all  that 
she  would  now  disclose.  "  Oh,  Stephen,"  the  letter 
went  on,  "  you  should  have  seen  Reuben  at  his  no- 
blest. 1  really  don't  believe  there  ever  was  another 
man  as  good,  as  truly  good,  as  Rube.  He  just  took 
me  in  his  arms  and  kissed  the  words  back— even 
when  I  wanted  to  say  more — and  he  said  he  wouldn't 
hear  any  more ;  he  said  it  was  only  natural  for  any 
one  to  care  for  you — and  a  lot  of  other  lovely  things. 
But  what  comforted  me  mor  *:  was  when  he  said  he 
knew  I  loved  him  the  best  in  the  whole  world  now, 
or  else  I  wouldn't  have  wanted  to  tell  him  everything. 
And  oh,  Stephen,  I  love  him  more  and  more  since 
we  got  married ;  and  I'm  going  to  give  my  life  to 
prove  to  him  that  my  whole  heart  i?  his  forever. 
And  we're  going  to  live  right  here  with  father — and 
we're  so  happy.  And  Rube  says  all  we  want  now  is 
you  and  Hattie." 

Then  followed  some  eager  enquiries  for  the  well- 
loved  fugitive,  Stephen's  fancy  leaping  to  join  the 
chase. 

The  next  day  was  a  torture  as  it  dragged  its  crawl- 
ing way.  A  torment  of  impatience  seized  him — but 
relief  came  from  an  unexpected  quarter.  A  steerage 
passenger  was  reported  to  be  dying.  Stephen  asked 
to  be  shown  to  his  quarters  and  for  a  time  his  soul 


By    WA  Y  of   The    CROSS 


383 


forgot  its  burden  in  its  ministry  to  the  suffering  man. 
This  experience  opened  the  door  for  a  service  he 
found  it  the  keenest  joy  to  render  to  one  and  another 
of  the  lowly  travellers ;  and  when  at  last  the  vessel 
rounded  Sandy  Hook  the  name  oftenest  upon  the 
lips  of  the  poor  foreigners,  the  sick,  the  friendless, 
was  that  of  the  man  whose  transient  ministry  had 
brought  as  much  of  comfort  as  it  gave. 

Stout  indeed  the  heart  would  need  to  be  that  fain 
would  ply  its  search  among  the  millions  of  New 
York.  Yet  this  was  what  Stephen  had  resolved  to 
do,  unable  though  he  was  to  form  any  plan  as  to  how 
it  should  be  done.  No  sooner  had  he  disembarked 
than  he  hurried  eagerly  to  lower  Broadway,  walking 
up  and  down  for  nearly  an  hour  in  the  neighbour- 
hood that  the  Commander  had  described.  The  rest- 
less crowds  rolled  about  him,  the  roaring  traffic  never 
ceased,  the  chime  of  overhanging  bells  mingled  with 
it  all,  as  Stephen  wandered  to  and  fro  himself  pitying 
the  poor  faint  clue  that  held  him  to  the  spot. 

Thus  passed  the  days,  seeking  here  and  everywhere 
his  lost  one,  the  search  still  unrewarded.  Foiled  and 
despondent,  one  late  afternoon  found  him  ir.  his  room 
at  the  St.  Denis.  The  chimes  of  Grace  church,  im- 
mediately opposite,  sprinkled  their  sweet  melody 
about,  somehow  intensifying  the  loneliness  that 
settled  round  him  Uke  a  cloud.  His  torture  lay  in 
the  assurance  that  his  wife  was  in  the  same  city  as 
himself,  yet  beyond  his  reach,  hidden  somewhere  in 
the  billowy  depths  of  an  ocean  he  could  not  penetrate. 


384 


THE    UNDER701V 


Suddenly  the  thought  drifted  in  upon  him  that  of 
all  the  thousands  of  New  York  he  knew  no  other  one 
but  her.  Half  curiously,  he  fell  to  searching  the  ac- 
curacy of  this ;  and  suddenly  remembered,  his  face 
lightening  a  moment,  that  his  old  travelling  compan- 
ion and  Edinburgh  classmate,  Ernest  Mather,  was 
now  a  minister  somewhere  in  the  mighty  city.  He 
had  heard  of  him  incidentally  once  or  twice. 

A  moment  later  he  summoned  a  servant  and  asked 
for  a  directory  of  the  city.  A  brief  search  yielded 
him  the  name  he  sought,  "  Rev.  Ernest  Mather, 
B.D  " ;  nothing  the  address,  he  set  forth  to  find  his 
friend. 

As  he  alighted  from  the  car  he  noted  with  surprise 
the  humble  character  of  the  houses,  nor  was  the  one 
at  which  he  ultimately  paused  much  -.aperior  to  its 
neighbours.  A  plate  at  the  side  of  the  door  informed 
him  that  this  was  a  mission-house,  the  headquarters 
of  the  workers.  He  felt  a  thrill  of  admiration  for  the 
whole-souled  Mather,  whose  gifts  and  culture  he  well 
knew  could  win  him  a  conspicuous  place.  Happy 
Mather ! 

Stephen  rang  the  bell  and  the  door  was  opened  in- 
stantly by  an  elderly  woman,  who  answered  his  en- 
quiry with  the  disappointing  intelligence  that  Mr. 
Mather  was  away  from  home. 

"  He's  at  a  conference  in  Albany,"  she  said, "  gone 
for  three  days." 

Stephen  had  given  her  his  hotel  address  and  was 
about  to  turn  away,  when  a  tiny  voice  rose  from  the 
neighbourhood  of  his  knees. 


By    WA  Y   of    The    CROSS 


385 


"  Pleabc,  Totty  wants  some  one  to  pray." 

"  What  ?  "  said  the  matron  in  surprise. 

"  Tott) 's  worse,  and  mother  sent  me  for  a  preacher. 
Totty  wants  tlie  lady — but  we  don't  know  where 
she  is." 

\"ery  gently  the  kind-hearted  housekeeper  told  the 
child  how  helple.-is  she  was  to  aid  her,  not  a  sin<;le 
worker  bein;^  in  the  house.  The  poor  urchm  beyan 
to  sob  broken-heartedly. 

"Ain't  there  nobody  to  pray?  Totty  won't  be 
long." 

Stephen  stooped  over  and  turned  the  tear-stained 
face  upward  with  hi>  hand. 

"  Would  you  trust  nic,  little  one  ?  "  he  asked,  almost 
reverentiall)-.     "  I'm  a  minister,  my  child." 

The  little  waif  dried  her  tears  as  she  looked  up 
into  the  strong,  loving  face,  hailing  the  pity  that 
shone  from  the  eyes  of  her  new-found  iriend.  Her 
answer  wa.^  to  slip  her  hand  into  the  man's  shel- 
tering palm,  leading  him  away.  Ten  minutes  later 
they  halted  at  a  sagging  door,  one  of  its  panels 
broken  in.  Pushing  it  back,  they  climbed  the 
rickety  stairs  and  stole  uito  the  room  of  death. 

Squalid  and  poverty-stricken  though  it  was,  the 
Majesty  was  there ;  for  a  child  of  eight  short  years 
was  awaiting  her  coronation  at  death's  impartial 
hands.  The  father  and  mother,  sunken  and  de- 
graded both,  were  sharing  in  the  silent  pomp  that 
clothes  the  humblest  when  they  wait  on  this  august 
ceremony.  Their  faces,  marked  though  they  were 
by  signs  of  low  indulgence,  were  lightened  now  with 


p> 


THE   UNDERTOW 


the  glow  of  a  tenderness  that  wantonness  could  not 
destroy,  and  in  each  coarse  and  stainful  palm  there 
rested  a  hand  of  their  little  girl,  whitened  by  disease 
and  pain. 

"  Take  out  them  rags,  Sarah,  and  let  in  more  air — 
she's  worsen" 

The  woman  turned  and  plucked  the  obstruction 
from  the  window,  letting  it  fall  upon  the  floor  as 
she  sank  on  her  knees  beside  the  bed  again. 

"  Don't  be  afeard,  Totty,"  Stephen  heard  the 
father  say,  the  tears  running  down  his  grimy  cheeks. 
"  Mind  what  the  lady  told  you— about  that  Jesus, 
You  mind  she  said  He  said  there  was  lots  of  beautiful, 
of  beautiful — apartments,  in  heaven.  She  said  as 
how  He  said  if  there  hadn't  'a'  been,  He'd  have.  He'd 
have— have  let  us  know.  Wasn't  that  it,  mother  ?  " 
"  Yes,  Joe,"  and  the  bro1-::n  woman  laid  her  face 
beside  her  child'b  on  the  soiled  and  crumpled  pillow ; 
"  an'  He'll  come  for  you,  Totty— the  lady  said  He'd 
come  an'  get  you.  Keep  a  lookin'  for  Him,  Totty, 
till  He  comes." 

The  dying  eyes  turned  toward  her  father.  "  Ain't 
there  nobody  to  pray?"  she  murmured. 

Stephen  drew  closer  and  touched  the  unobservant 
man  upon  the  shoulder.  He  started,  looking  ques- 
tioningly  into  Stephen's  face. 

"  I  brung  him,"  volunteered  the  guide,  tiptoeing 
toward  the  bed,  "  there  wa'nt  nobody  else — an'  he's 
a  preacher." 

Without  another  word  Stephen  bended  over  the 
dying  child,  spoke  a  few  words  of  heavenly  comfort, 


By    IV AY   of   The   CROSS 


^87 


then  dropped  on  his  knees  beside  the  bed.  And  his 
soul  poured  itself  out  in  a  prayer  of  simplicity  and 
powe.,  the  very  peace  of  God  seeming  to  de>ccnd  in 
answer    upon  the  an^'uished  hearts. 

When  he  arose,  the  childish  eyes  were  fastened  on 
him  with  an  intensity  before  which  he  almost 
quailed,  for  the  challenge  and  searching  of  death 
looked  out  tiom  them.  Suddenly  they  forsook  his 
face,  roving  downward  toward  the  bed,  then  upward 
to  the  mother. 

"  Where's  the  cross  ? "  she  whispered. 

The  mother  thrust  her  hand  under  the  pillow — 
then  withdrew  it ;  she  groped  a  moment  under  the 
scanty  coverings. 

"  Here  it  is,  darling,  here  it  is,"  and  she  placed  it 
in  the  wasted  hand,  the  tiny  steel  chain  that  was 
attached  lying  on  the  clothes  in  a  lit'.le  coil. 

Stephen  glanced  at  it — then  gla..>.ed  again  ;  and 
his  brain  seemed  to  flame  with  fire.  He  half  -eeled 
where  he  stood — for  he  knew  it,  he  knew  it !  The 
size,  the  material,  the  colour,  especially  the  chain, 
all  these  he  marked  with  burning  accuracy ;  and  a 
vision  of  London,  a  glimmering  street  lamp,  a 
trembling  girl,  a  faltering  story,  passed  before  him  as 
in  a  flash  of  midnight  light. 

"  Where  did  you  get  that  cross  ? "  he  burst  out, 
forgetful  of  the  decor  i/j  with  which  watchers  wait 
for  death. 

The  startled  look  of  the  father  and  mother  recalled 
him  to  a  sense  of  the  occasion  ;  swiftly  he  passed 
toward  the  door,  beckoning  the  older  girl  to  follow 


388 


THE    UNDERTOW 


him.  She  did  so,  and  Stephen  drew  her  half  way 
down  the  creaking  stair,  repeating  his  enquiry  in 
hoarse,  beseeching  tones. 

'<  It  was  a  lady,  sir,  what  came  to  see  our  Totty. 
She  seen  the  mother  holdin'  Totty  at  the  window, 
an'  she  heard  her  coughin'.  I  think  she  alius  goes 
in  w'en  she  knows  as  there's  sickness  anywheres.  It 
was  her  that  guv  that  little  crbss  to  Totty.  She 
was  a  spcakin'  a  lot  about  the  cross — an'  about  Jesus; 
an'  she  showed  it  to  Totty.  She  had  it  roun'  her 
neck,  an'  Totty  took  an  awful  fancy  to  it— an'  last 
night  she  guv  it  to  her,  chain  an'  all.  She  didn't 
want  to  give  it  at  first— b-i'.  Totty  cried;  an'  when 
she  guv  it,  she  had  to  pry  one  of  the  links  open  to 
get  it  off.  She  said  as  how  it  wasn't  never  off  her 
n^ck  afore,  since  her  mother  fixed  it  on." 

Stephen's  eyes  were  flashing  into  the  girl's. 
"  Where  does  sh«-  live  ?  Where  does  she  work  ?  " 
he  asked  in  a  tense  whisper, 

"  She's  at  some  mission,"  the  girlanswered  promptly ; 
"  I  don't  know  nothin'  about  where  it  is — only  it's 
called  the  T  :rry  Mission,  or  somethmg  like  that.  I 
heard  her  say  so ;  I  know  mother  said  it  was  the 
same  name  as  our  Jerry  that  works  in  Harlem 
and     .     .     ." 

Stephen  heard  no  more.  Down  the  decrepit 
stairs  he  strode,  out  into  the  street,  turning  to  the 
left  in  the  direction  he  thought  would  lead  to 
Brooklyn  Bridge.  Looking  at  his  watch,  he  saw 
that  it  was  but  eight  o'clock — the  very  hour  !  He 
had   gone   not   more  than  half   a  block,  when   he 


By    W  A  Y   of  The    CROSS 


^8q 


suddenly  stopped,  stood  still,  pondered  a  innnK-iit— a 
moment  of  inward  battle — then  turned  and  hurried 
back  to  the  poor  tenement  with  flying;  feet. 

A  glow  of  shame  burned  on  the  mantled  cheek. 
"  Forsakint^  a  dying  child,"  he  muttered  a>  lie 
scanned  the  shabby  doo.s  for  tlie  broken  panel. 
Resolutely  he  climbed  the  shabby  stairs  again  and 
stood  once  more  beside  the    lowly  bed. 

"  She  was  asking  for  you,"  the  father  whispered, 
wondering  at  the  hungry  eyes  that  the  stranger  kept 
fixed  upon  the  little  cross. 

W  'h  infinite  tenderness  he  soothed  the  pillow  for 
the  aying  head,  quoting  the  sweetest  promises,  sing- 
ing portions  of  gentle  hymns,  praying  sometimes  for 
the  children's  Friend  to  come. 

They  were  all  standing  above  the  struggling  one 
when  suddenly  the  struggle  turned  to  peace.  A 
holy  radiance  shed  the  light  of  joy  upon  her  face,  and 
the  little  cross  fell  from  the  pallid  hand,  outstretched 
in  eager  signal. 

"  Oh,  mother,"  she  cried  faintly,  "  He's  a  comin' — 
He's  a  comin'  now." 


The  eyes  that  Stephen  softly  closed  were  still  the 
homes  of  rapturous  wonder.  But  the  crying  mother 
saw  it  not.  engulfed  in  the  billows  of  a  sorrow  .she  had 
never  known  before.  Her  hu.sband  knelt  beside  her, 
his  hand  caressingly  upon  her  shoulder. 

"  Don't  cry  that  way,  mother,"  he  said,  himself, 
sobbing  as  he  spoke.  "  I  couldn't  stand  it  neither 
only  it  was  Him  as  took  our  Totty.     He  come  and 


i 


390 


THE    UNDERTOW 


took  her,  mother ;  I  know  it— for  I  seen  our  Totty's 
face." 

Kneeling  beside  them  both,  Stephen  prayed  ;  and 
all  his  prayer  was  to  the  One  who  had  taken  lutty 
home.  When  he  arose  the  mourners  thought  him 
beautiful,  for  tears  Ukc  to  '.heir  own  were  upon  his 
cheeks. 

He  asked  them,  reverently,  if  he  might  have  the 
precious  symbol  their  child  had  held  in  her  d\  ing 
hands.  It  was  reverently  given ;  and  soon,  with  a 
parting  word  of  sympathy  and  love,  Stephen  resumed 
the  quest  from  which  he  had  been  recalled  by  the 
same  Voice  as  now  bade  him  forth. 


iii.  ,'■ 


"  Yes,  this  is  Water  Street— and  that's  the  Gospel 
mill  ye're  lookin'  for.  See  that  bright  light  m  the 
next  block  ?  No,  the  other  side  the  street,  the  side 
nearest  the  bridge — yes,  that's  it." 

"  That's  the  McAuley  Mission  the  Jerry  McAuley 
Mission,  is  it  ?  " 

"  Right  you  are  ;  that's  what  it  is — never  been 
there  myself,  but  some  terrible  bums  get  made  over 
there  .  .  .  when  you  get  to  the  door  just  go 
straight  in  ;  they'll  make  you  welcome.  Good-night," 
and  the  wayfarer  was  gone. 

Warm  indeed  was  the  welcome  Stephen  received 
as  he  stepped  inside  the  narrow  door  of  the  famous 
mission.  This  was  extended  to  him  by  the  janitor, 
himself  a  beaming  trophy  of  the  place.  Declining 
to  be  shown  forward,  Stephen  took  a  seat  near  the 


By    WA  Y  of   The    CROSS 


}9i 


door,  thinking  but  little  of  the  service  that  was  in 
progress,  caring  ior  nothing  but  the  chance  of  find- 
ing his  love  again. 

Soon,  however,  his  curiosity  anJ  his  emotion  were 
awakened.  For  the  mifhticst  enterprise  on  which 
mortal  eyes  can  lo-.k  was  going  on  before  him. 

The  address  had  evidently  been  already  given  ,  fo: 
the  leading  spirit  of  the  place,  successor  to  the  great 
McAuley,  had  left  the  platform  and  was  moving 
round  among  the  men.  Lame  though  he  was.  lean- 
ing heavil/  upon  his  staff,  the  infirmity  was  scarcely 
noticed  wnen  once  the  greatness  and  beauty  of  his 
character  were  recognized,  as  they  were  sure  to  be  by 
anyone  who  had  the  eyes  to  read  them  in  his  face,  so 
marked  by  suffering,  so  full  of  yearning  and  com- 
passion, so  tranquil  with  its  distant  peace.  This 
leader  moved  among  the  human  derelicts,  sitting 
down  beside  one  and  anul.i.er,  casting  his  line  hither 
and  thither  like  an  eager  fisher  of  men,  wooing  them 
to  decision,  promising  them  the  strength  of  God, 
cheering  them  with  visions  of  victory  ;  and,  above 
all  else,  plying  the  great  advantage  of  his  own  rich 
experience,  whimpering  the  story  of  his  one-time 
bondage  to  drunkenness  and  all  its  kindred  vice,  his 
(ace  glowing  and  his  eyes  moistening  as  the  story 
swelled  into  the  song  of  the  redeemed. 

Then  the  testimonies  began.  One  by  one  they 
faltered  forth  from  lips  long  familiar  with  far  other 
sorts  of  speech.  The  drunkard  told  his  story,  told 
how  the  burning  thirst  was  gone,  acclaiming  the 
magic  of  grace  Divine  ;  the  outcast  too,  his  soul  once 


392 


THE    UNDERTOl^ 


-A- 


honeycombed  with  vice  he  might  not  name,  chanted 
the  song  of  his  deliverance.  And  Stephen  noted 
hi.s  heart  melted  in  pity  as  he  saw.  the  faithful  w  ives' 
that  here  and  there,  subbing  to  themselves,  listened  to 
the  wondrous  story,  mutely  praying  that  the  .umm-r 
day  might  last,  trembling  lest  even  yet  thc>-  might 
be  bidden  forth  frum  ''aradise. 

About  the  fme  the  testifying  had  begun,  a  poor 
wastrel  from  the  street  had  stumbled  in  and  taken 
h.s  seat  b,  ie  Stephen  on  the  bench  near  the  door 
He  struggle  shake  himself  from  his  drunken  slum- 
ber, bhnkmg  wearily  as  he  looked  upon  the  rejoicing 
converts,  their  strange  testimony  filtering  slowly  in 
upon  his  clouded  brain. 

He  recognized  as  former  boon  companions,  one  or 
two  of  those  who  had  reached  the  shore ;  and  a 
strange  expression  of  surprise  and  wonder  mingled 
with  his  drunken  torpor.  A  conflict  of  emotion 
flashed  across  hi.s  sin-stained  face.  Suddenly  he 
arose,  holding  to  the  bench  before  him. 

"  I  want  to  get  what  them  fellows  got—I  don't 
know  nuthin-  about  this  Jesus  Christ,  but  I  want  to 
get  what  them  fellows  has,"  he  cried,  and  his  words 
thrilled  with  the  majesty  oi  poverty  and  need. 

In  a  moment  the  noble  leader  was  beside  him 
hmpmg  swiftly  down  the  aisle  ;  a  little  later,  a  new 
trophy  umped  back  with  him  to  take  his  place  among 
the  penitent.  The  leader's  f.ce  wa,^  radiant  with  the 
joy  of  those  who  joy  in  harvest. 

Soon  the  evangelist  took  his  place  upon  the  plat- 
form, signalling  to  a  stalwart  man  who  stood  besido 


^7:<*.idr^ 


•^KlA^£-^,v. 


hir.    Tlu:lattcr.um,a.on 

over  to   the  or^M„  and  prefaced  1„.  so.,..  v..tl,  a  i..v 
broke,,   words  of  testi.„o„y.     Tl.,.    .h;,,    ,,    ^^ 
^o,  he  had  bee,,  .^rovell,,,.  at  the  „.uddy  bott  ., 
Co.u.e   Opera.  a,,d.  a  httle  later.  .su,,.,.,^„.,":. 
n>omhat.uuld,ivehi,uuh..key,orh,:a„/.      , 

hen  he  unfolded  h.s.,usiea„dbc,.u,t.>.„,.!G''j 

ha.  upe,,ed  Heaven  to  n,e,-'n.., ace  uph.^^d^U 
uorc.   rol,,d  t,,  .,^^,^^^^,,.,,^.^,^_^^^_^^_^_^^^^^^^^^^^^^ 

n..  toward  the  .fu^.h,,.  sunn„,cr.  i„  the  vo.tex 
ho  had  left  bel,ind.  Stephen',  heart  wa.  „„  to 
burst,ng. 

IL   i  .njjed  to  rise    to  take  h,.  phcc  at  last  arno,,. 
he  blood-b.    -.„kled  ones,  h.s  need  as  ^reat  a.  the,,; 
He   Icngcd    to    tell    ti,em   that  he.   too.   had  been   • 

du-c^nWhes.un..thatno,.l.b,,-d'an.o„Xn 
a  had  known  an  „npri...n:nent  n,o,-e  dark  than  In. 
l^ut  the   moment   parsed,   and  he  hea.-d  the  lea.ier'. 

VOlcC. 

;'Xcnvmyb,-otI,ers,weVe^,.i,„toelosethcn,.et- 
..^_  Jk,  renu-,,,berrilbeprayu,,  f.u-youallto- 
n.^ht.     A,d   remember  that    i  ie  ,..  faith.al.      It  uas 

breath..  Alates.  the  anchor  hold,.'  ThatV  the  w,.nl 
Ilcave  w,th  you  all  to-ni^ht.  The  anchor  ho.M:'- 
the^  anchor  hold.     Trust  the  Saviour  and  yonH.nd 

The  leader  turned  a  n,oment  on  the  platforn,. 
Ihere  was  a  pause-and  Stephen  uonder.d  why 
The  next  instant  his  heart  stood  ^lill  and  e^erythm^^ 


vmima^d&r   * 


r^.i:m^\ 


394 


■THE    UNDER-TOIV 


grew  dim  and  faint  before  him.  For  the  first  note  of 
the  now  gusli in^  song  took  his  soul  into  its  grip  as 
in  the  hand  of  God.  Rich,  melodious,  powerful ,  luving 
— it  is  Ilattie's  voice — thrilling  with  eager  passion, 
sometimes  quivering  with  tenderness  as  she  sings: 

"  Christ  receiveth  sinful  men," 

pleading  in  every  syllable  that  the  wanderers  might 
come  home. 

She  had  almost  finished  before  he  raised  his  head ; 
but  just  as  the  soulful  voice  lingered  on  the  closing 
chords 

"  Tell  it  o'er  ami  o'er  again. 

Make  tlic  message  clear  and  plain, 
Christ  receivetli,  Christ  ri-rcivclh, 
Christ  receivetli  sinful  men," 

he  slowly  raised  his  eyes  till  they  could  see  her  face. 
And  the  handiwork  of  the  unseen  was  visible  upon  it ; 
sorrow,  loneliness,  loyalty,  yearning,  mingling  in 
their  toil,  had  crowned  the  alwaj-s  lovel>'  face  with 
the  beauty  that  is  not  of  time — and  Stephen  pleaded 
with  God  to  deny  him  not. 

The  motley  throng  was  slowly  filing  out  into  the 
street,  and  Stephen  stood  within  the  darkness,  his 
soul  fixed  in  the  eager  gaze  that  never  turned  from 
the  outflowing  light. 

"  No,  thank  you,  it  isn't  far — and  Mrs.  Cardiff  al- 
ways goes  with  me;  her  door  is  next  to  mine,"  he 
heard  the  voice  that  rapt  his  heart  in  fire  :  and,  steal- 
ing lorth,  he  followed  the  dear  form  as  it  glided 
swiftly  homeward. 


:«BK';ii«lt*>»~<».«^««*«i 


By    U^AY  of    The    CROSS  395 

It  was  not  far,  as  slic  had  said  ;  and  soon,  bidding 
her  friend  goud-nii^ht,  she  tripped  up  a  l.ttle  ili-iit  of 
stairs.  Her  companion  di.si[)peared,  tlic  door  slam- 
mui.;  behind  her,  while  Hattie,  stooping  sh<;htly,  tried 
to  adjust  her  latch-key  to  tlie  lock.  She  had  not 
noticed  Stephen,  though  he  is  now  on  the  very 
bottom  of  the  stejjs. 

"  llattie,"  he  cried  softly,  "  Ilatlie,  wait." 
Amazed,   she   retreated  a    step    toward  tiie  pave- 
ment, peering  t(j  discern  the  face  ;  for  an  over-hang- 
ing lamp,  swinging  in  the  wind,  suddenly  darkened, 
giininiering  dimly. 

lie   rei)eatetl  the  name  again. 

"  Hattie,  f.jrgive  me— I've  come  back.  Oh,  my 
darling,  take  me  back,  take  me  back.  I  want 
you  so— my  wife,  my  wife,"  holding  his  arms  out  to 
her  in  the  darkness. 

No  word  of  chiding,  nor  question,  nor  remon- 
strance, nor  sign  of  fear;  nothing  but  the  sweet 
fragrance  of  love  and  trust  and  healing,  as  she  stole 
silently  into  the  open  arms,  her  own  tightening  about 
his  neck  in  the  old  clinging  way,  slowly  tightening, 
as  they  had  done  in  the  cruel  dreams  that  had  so 
often  mocked  liini  since  she  went  away. 

They  sank  together  upon  the  steps,  the  lamp  still 
dim  at  heaven's  bidding  ;  and  the  noises  of  the  night, 
as  once  before,  seemed  dull  and  far  awaj-,  shut  out 
by  a  wall  of  living  fire.  Then  his  lips  sought  her 
own,  upward  turned,  smiling,  waiting,  dewy  with 
gladness,  thrilling  out  their  story  beneath  the  sacred 
touch.     His  hand  roved  to  her  cheek,  her  hair,  her 


396 


THE    UNDERTOH^ 


■  '%'•'• -i 


neck,  dumbly  stroking  them  as  thou^^h  he  were  a 
bhnd  man  longing  to  indentify  his  love. 

"  Come  in,"  she  murmured  by  and  by,  "  I  have  just 
a  little  room  here — it's  a  lodging  house — but  come  in. 
Oh,  Stephen,  I  have  prayed  for  this  so  long.  Last 
night  I  had  the  sweetest  drc  im— 1  dreamed  we  were 
at  Morven,  dear,  you  and  I  together  in  the 
manse." 

He  said  nothing,  but  passed  with  her  into  the  long 
hall,  still  holding  her  close  as  they  walked  alon  ■  in 
the  semi-darkness.  She  paused  before  a  door, 
beneath  which  there  flowed  a  gleam  of  light. 

"  All  right,  Mamie,  you  may  run  to  your  room  now. 
And  thank  you,  dear." 

In  a  moment  a  little  girl  came  out,  rubbing  her 
eyes.  She  looked  up  at  1  lattie,  beginning  to  speak  ; 
but  Hattie  motioned  to  her  to  be  still,  and  she  p  issed 
silently  along  the  hall.  They  went  in  together,  and 
Hattie  turned  and  locked  the  door.  Then  she  held 
her  arms  out  to  her  husband,  her  face  shining  with 
the  purity  of  love,  and  he  folded  her  with  silent  rap- 
ture to  his  heart  again. 

"  Stephen,"  she  whispered,  "  you  will  never  leave 
me  again,  will  you,  darling?  " 
He  held  her  closer. 

<<  Not  even  to-night— nor  ever  r  You'll  staj-  here 
with  us  to-night,  won't  you,  Stephen — my  husband, 
my  husband!"  and  the  face  is  moist  that  rests 
on  his. 

I  le  started  at  the  word.  She  drew  herself  gently 
from  his  arms,  taking  his  hand  in  hers. 


By    WA  Y  of   The    CROSS 


197 


"  Come,  Stephen,"  she  said,  her  voice  shakinj;. 
"  Come.  " 

She  led  liim  to  the  bed,  and  they  looked  down  to- 
gcllier. 

'I'lie  room  was  warm;  and  there  lay,  shimberinj; 
sweetly,  the  chubby  limbs  all  bare  before  them,  one 
dimpled  hand  thrown  carelessly  above  the  flaxen 
hair,  a  baby  face  which  the  most  careless  eye  could 
tell  was  fashioned  like  the  storm--.we[)t  fice  above  it. 

Slowly  Stephen's  nis  crept  about  his  wife,  his 
breast  heavin<:j  stormily,  his  face  wrunc^  with  this  new 
emotion  his  soul.  Long  they  gazed  in  silence,  the 
little  slcuper  stirring  as  they  looked,  Ilattie's  glance 
turned  now  and  then  in  eager  pride  upon  her  hus- 
band. 

"Look  at  his  little  feet,  Stephen,"  she  crooned, 
"his  toes — and  his  wee  fingers.  t)h,j>ist  wait  till 
you  sec  his  eyes.  They're  yours,  Stephen,  they're 
yours." 

But  he  spoke  no  word,  nor  turned  his  gaze  away, 
looking  through  swimming  ej-es  as  though  he  could 
never  loik  enough. 

After  a  little  she  drew  him  gently  downward,  till 
their  faces  met  above  their  child.  The  dimpled  hand 
moved  restlessly,  poised  a  moment,  then  rested  on 
Stejjhen's  cheek  ;  the  baby  woke,  his  big  eyes  fixing 
tl-.eir  startled  gaze  upon  his  mother,  then  wandering 
to  his  fati  .r's  face.  Wondering,  he  took  a  long  look 
into  the  unfamiliar  eyes,  as  if  afraid  ;  then  suddenly 
the  baby  lips  broke  into  a  smile  that  seemed  to 
Stephen  like  the  light  of  God. 


398 


THE    UNDERTOW 


Hattic  lifted  the  little  one  up  between  them,  his 
fingers  toying  with  his  father's  hair.  Slowly  she  sank 
down  beside  the  bed,  her  husband  kneeling  with 
her. 

"  Pray,  Stephen,"  she  said. 

"  I  can't,  Hattie,  I  can't— you  pray,"  his  choking 
voice  replied. 

And  Hattie  prayed,  pleading  her  own  before  her 

God. 


XXXI 


s 


THE    NEW    CO  l^  EN  A  NT 

llL'Rl-:  'luas  a  litliu  bin!  that  toiild  mc  the 
chiistL-'iin'  was  to-iiuii;ht — and  I  was  bint  uii 
i^ivin'  my  blcssiii'  to  the  buy;  and  I've  hah 
a  moind  to  baiule  the  biitle."  I'ather  O'Rourke's 
merry  lau<;h  xmvj,  through  the  oid  Rosehill  farmhouse 
as  his  „_  es  turned,  fir.-t  on  the  nnte  in  1  lattie '->  arms, 
then  ori  the  bkir^hini;  Kessie. 

"  I5esoide>,  I  wanted  to  see  my  curat.:  aj^ain,"  he 
went  on  jaunlil}-.  "  1  hadn't  but  a  th.imbleful  of  him 
in  London — and  tliat  ould  Maloney,  that  brouj^ht  me 
back  wid  his  paralysis,  is  as  hearty  as  a  two-)ear-old 
again  ;  the  ould  sniner,  the  next  toime  I  go  abroad, 
I'll  kill  him  wid  a  club  before  I  go." 

The  priest's  mirlhlul  banter  was  interrupted  by  a 
voice  without. 

Roberi;  \\'i>hart,  still  wreathed  in  smiles,  opened 
the  door  and  admittetl  his  well-loved  minister. 

"  Come  in,  Mr.  Siiearer.  We're  a'  ready  for  the 
baptcc/.in' — the  bairn's  line,  never  a  clieep  oot  o' 
him.     Tak   the  rockin'  chair;  ye  ken  a'  the  tolk." 

Close  beside  his  son  stood  Rnbert  Wi.-'hart,  his  face 
anointed  with  the  oil  of  gladness  as  Stephen  and 
Ilatlie  presented  their  fir.-t-born  Un  the  holy  rite. 
Mr.  .Shearer  addressed  to  them  a  fcvv  words  of  ear- 
nest counsel. 

599 


400 


THE    UNDERTOW 


"  What  is  the  child's  name  ?  "  he  then  enquired. 

"  Reuben,"  answered  Stephen  ;  and  as  he  spoke  the 
name,  he  turned,  looking  full  upon  his  brother  v/ilh 
ineffable  love  and  tenderness.  Reuben  saw  the 
glance,  interpreting  its  great  significance  with  silent 
joy;  but  he  did  not  see  another  face,  gl<nving  witli 
reverent  love,  that  looked  on  his  with  a  ticvoted  pritie 
which  was  to  fill  all  his  after  life  with  blessing.  1-or 
she  stood  close  beside  him,  close  clinging  in  wifely 
love. 

The  sacramental  drops  still  bedewed  the  infant's 
head  when  Father  O'Rourke  took  him  from  his 
mother's  arms,  looking  long  down  on  the  unconscious 
child.  Gently  he  kissed  the  baby  brow,  and  Stephen 
heard  him  murmuring  low  :  "  The  angel  that  redeemed 
me  from  all  evil  bless  the  lad." 

Happy  beyond  description  was  th  ^  little  company 
that  gathered  about  the  ho-pitablc  board,  Robert 
Wishart  at  the  head,  every  word  a  safety-valve  for 
the  joy  that  overflowed  his  heart.  Stephen  was  be- 
side Mr.  Shearer. 

"  It's  this  day  fortnight  you're  to  be  settled  at 
Morven,  is  it  not?  "  he  asked  the  former  ;  "  I  hope  to 
be  there." 

"  Yes,"  Stephen  answered,  "  and  by  the  way,  the 
elders  have  asked  me  to  give  their  church  a  name. 
It  has  always  been  called  the  Morven  church  ;  but 
they  want  someth'ng  more  distinctive,  and  they've 
asked  me  to  select  it.  I'm  getting  m}'  friends  to  help 
me.  At  least,  I  have  asked  my  wife  to  suggest  a 
name — and  you  might  aid  us  both." 


THE   NEIV   COyENANT 


401 


"  Leave  it  to  your  wife,"  said  Mr.  Shearer,  inilinj^ 
toward  the  lovely  face,  crowned  now  witli  the  new 
oeauty  of  mother-love. 

The  evening  had  fallen  when  the  company  dis- 
persed, and  Robert  \\'i-.liart  uas  saj-in;^  farewell  to 
Mr.  Shearer  at  the  clate. 

"I  shud  be  prayin',  I  su|-.posc,  that  He'd  let  His 
servant  'J^^uv^  till  his  re.-t  in  p-.-.'.ce,  noo  my  cup  o'  joy 
is  full.  15ut  I  dinna  feel  that  way — I'd  sooner  bide 
a  wee,  and  ^ee  wee  Reuben  a  bit  alanc;  the  path." 
And  Mr.  Shearer  blessed  the  noble  heresy  as  he  said 
good-ni:^ht. 

Richly  blessed  did  the  Morvcn  worshippers  deem 
themselves  that  Sabbath  morniuLj,  two  weeks  later, 
when  their  new  minister's  fn>t  sermon  flowed  about 
them  in  rich  tides  ,')f  earnestness  and  love. 

IJeautiful  was  the  face  that  looked  out  upon  them 
from  the  pulpit  lie  was  now  proud  to  call  his  own. 
For  time  is  a  wondr.  us  workman,  if  he  have  but  the 
proper  tools.  Xor  had  these  been  spared  on  Stephen's 
face;  .-^orow,  remorse,  loneliness,  all-torturinj^  love, 
all-coneiucriiu;  hope — with  these  ever  favourite  tools 
had  the  untirini^  craftsman  plied  his  silent  toil,  paus- 
m^  not  to  look  upon  the  labor.  f  his  hands,  leaving 
the  fruits  of  his  industry  to  the  great  Taskmaster's 
eye.  In  the  fruitful  night  had  he  done  his  work, 
without  sound  of  hammer  or  blow  of  chisel,  without 
gleam  of  knife  or  glow  of  refiner's  flame.  But  it  had 
been  done,  and  all  men  saw  its  beauty  save  Stephen 
only. 


402 


THE    UNDERTOW 


Strength,  tenderness,  compassion,  purpose,  love,  all 
these  spoke  throuj^h  the  Ups  that  burned  now  with  a 
new  and  chastened  eloquence  ;  and  the  peace  of  God 
was  upon  the  hushed  and  rejoicing  throng. 

Ikt'ore  the  benediction  was  pronounced,  Stephen 
glanced  toward  the  choir  in  the  old-fashioned  galleiy 
at  the  end  of  the  church.  Then  he  cjuietly  took  his 
seat  and  waited. 

Deep  silence  reigned  a  moment;  the  n^-xt,  rich 
thrilling  tones  poured  forth,  the  same  he  had  first 
heard  in  far-off  London  when  his  soul  first  awakened 
at  the  voice  of  love.  The  same  h>nin,  but  farther  on 
in  its  deepening  stream  : 

"See  from  His  hc.'i<l,  Ilis  hands,  His  feet, 
Sorrow  and  love  tlow  mingled  down. 
Did  e'er  such  love  and  sorrow  meet 
Or  thorns  compose  so  rich  a  crown  ?  " 

Rejoicing  ones  had  detained  him  a  few  minutes  at 
the  church.  And  as  Stephen  hurried  across  the  solt 
sward,  peering  eagerly  toward  the  manse,  the  un- 
clouded sun  poured  down  on  Hattie.her  eyes  bent  on 
little  Reuben  asleep  in  the  hammock  that  swung 
gently  beneath  the  trees. 

Her  hand  stole  into  her  husband's  as  they  stood 
together  looking  down  upon  the  slumberer's  face. 

"  Oh,  Stephen,"  she  said  eagerly,  "  I've  thought  of 
a  name ;  I'm  sure  it's  the  right  one.  Let  us  call  it 
'  The  Church  of  the  New  Covenant.'  " 

The  strong  note  of  a  strong  nian's  love  was  in  his 


THE   NEIV   C0l^EN/1>JT  403 

voice  as  he  took  her  in  his  arms.     •'  Vcs,  cKirlini;,  the 
new  covenant,  new,  my  darling." 

Which  thijir  lips  scalcil  as  they  .net  in  >ilcntnc>s 
and  son.i;,  blcndinc;  in  the  hymn  of  praise  that  ar.;^cls 
«:annot  learn. 


THE  END 


h'^^-^m'-: 


A  First  NuTcl 


A  Fj'id  Rumuriii 


St.  Cuthhcrfs 


Ih  RonKRT  i;.  KNOWULS 

linio,  clutli,  Sl.^o 

THE  rcqiii>itc-s  of  a  novel  of  strength 
iiiviilvc,  hr>t,  a  bcrtiii^;  second,  char- 
acicrs  of  strength;  and  finally,  and 
all-important,  the  genius  to  we;'',  c  into  at- 
tractive narrative  the 
joint  I'r.KliK  t  of  set- 
ting and  character. 
Ciivcn  a  ni(i.--t  uniijuc 
.-pot  ir.t  A  setting 
whi-.hcr  pen  of  author 
ji.idnotyet  wandered, 
people  sturdy  and  full 
of  torceand  character 
and.  human  ]\i.s>ions, 
Mr.Knoisleslias  pro- 
duced Sr.  CiTH- 
n\  K  1 '-,  a  ruinaiice  of 
liis  parish.  For  a 
first  hook  yet  to  be  ,:'i i . '.-.' ,  r ,\i  by  the  littera- 
teur the  revie".\ers  have  been  kind,  \  et  no 
n.ore  kind  than  just. 

"  RcmmI    Mr.  Knowles  as  .1  ni.>>tiT  .it  preii,-.u  X.ng- 

liaa." CU'IJ./;"';  Bjl-tht. 

»'AliunJ.int  cvi.ifncesof'iittT.iry  p.iucr 'ifm)  c.in;m(in 
tir.!cT." — The  I'lchytcruv.. 

"  IVrmciitfd  by  a  wliuI.M,mf  Uin.l  ..t"  i.li' .'i<  \%lil.li  it 
IS  wrll  to  keep  cun^tantly  f«t".>re  the  |'i!  lie." — I U 
i'uhiic  I.eJ^ir. 

•'Too  v.ir'u-.l  a  romnmnity  an.l  tou  vcrs.itili?  a  lmMu,r 
for  any  thjpti-r  to  lif  dull."  —  CV./../;"/  T'if-:.nf.  ^ 

"  It  is  a  new  ticld  of  rom.int'c  intcrt-st  .Mr.  Knowles 
has  opened  up." — Adjry  -'-'v- 


ST.CUTHBERT'S 

R.E.KNOWLrS 


j/A  Edition 


Al'iorbingly 
Intfrnting 


■•^''-'fri 


The  Lure  of  The 
Labrador  Wild 

liy  u\LUi\  VVALLACE 

Tl  1 1*',    Story  of  the  Kxploring 
Expedition     conducted     by 
Leonidas  Hubbard,  Jr.,  the 
tragic  incidents  of  which  are  graph- 
ically related  by    Dillon    Wallace, 
who  accompanied  Hubbard. 

Illustrations  and    Maps.       8vo, 
cloth,  net  ;?i.50 


**  posscssrs  in  its  naked  truth  more  of  human  Interest  than 
scons  nt  volumes  ut  ii;iae;nal.vc  aJveiiliirc  and  romance  of 
ihc  wild  cuuiiiry." — The  thicago    tvtntng  Pott, 


**  Hr  has  prnduccj  one  of 
the  most  praphic  and  mov- 
ing btorii's  of  adventure  that 
wi-  ha^  c  ever  read.  The 
pinrv  tells  itsrif,  and  is  as 
dr.iniattc  and  devout  as  it  ia 
paihrtic.  Here  is  a  record 
th;i(  holds  one,  as  fictiim 
nevrr  « niild,  of  suffering 
f.iced  and  heroism  shown,  for 
an  ideal  that  failed,  bv  men 
who  did  not  iah  ca>:h  o'^er.** 
—  \.    }'.   F.vrning  Su- 


'*  The  romance  nf  explo- 
ration has,  pi-rhaps,  seldom 
been  so  fasLinatinglv  pre- 
Bcnt<-il." — Rtvitw     of     Rt- 


iC.i'i.UKT.  or  Tnt 


,_.  of  ihe 

Exploring  Expedition 

VL'V>rcrt:D  My 
LEO.N IJA!i  HL'BBARD.Ja. 

17  ltLUiT14T10N4     ■     ■  3  Ma« 


i:!uiir.it.  .1 


Ci:!h,  Si  JO 


Sir  Riioid 

A  IJr  /  The  Jrri't  :/.n  E"!;t>r 
I,   JWIi  ^    M.   I.I   "LOW 

Autli.r  ..f  "!>         >;.,■'    -V   ;•-    :     :   j  i:  ■/ 1'»:,-'  rrc. 

A  l)()()K  OIK-  ic.uis  twice.  Vou 
2\.  lushuitli  \i\u>u\  rhioiHjh  his 
advciiturL's,  atul  when  he  is  s;ifc 
iioiiR-  ill  liis  SL-hwarr/waKl  Castle 
with  liis  Lady  Kcnce,  you  are 
haunteii  "  h  a  \  aunio  iiKinory  «)t 
stores  wi  t'ascinatinir  iiitori)iatii)ii 
ah>)Ut  our  crusadiiiij;  toretathers' 
w  ivs  i)t  Hte.      So  you  read  if  twice. 

"IV  I.  ..r.'.A  wri'.'.nf  tll•-'•.i■^  ..?■  nirCir.',  niiii.-, 
am"  ■  iti!!,'  u-  uitli  r,u.-  ^kiK.  A  tiiir  nlr  i.t  .hUjlr\  ii 
'Sir  R.i:"'!il,'  H-.i  :hc  <ir::,«-r;t,  ct'  r.TTi.int'-  Jnt  ,i.lv.  n- 
tun-  .irt-  rx^.-K.-mly  n.lnt:!-!.       It  M.  (irb,  th-- .itl'-nti.^n." 


1  l)t  i>',  t;   will    1  :ii  !'''• 


tiiiu-v    ill   will,  h    ,in    fiiipirc     tij^    jj,'!*      *•?-•' 

„,,.  .Mi.n.    Ti.,.- io'i,.n  i,     ^r^'iV^r•.r^/'' 


tlirilling  tViiTii  [•e-giiinmg  to 
ciil,  till-  l'i\f  sMry  is  -tronj! 
,i':l'  iM^  til  the  intt-rot  nf 
fills  vV'iiU  iif  rire  schaljr- 
shii'."  — A\;y  T-^k  Kx-irr.- 

ir.t'r. 

'"Thi-  t'jpMin  ut'  tJK- 
Jini/jrir-  I;  H  lutlivc'l  m.iiiy 
b.iii.ir.Mi  'f  hi.-tniiwjl  r!..vrlj 
ai,.i  'Sir  R.i-.il'  slii«u-i  i'l'Vf 
fijiallv-u.  >'--'fuUn.i("Tn,.i 
nt-nt."'— i-..-  h.d.[e:J<:nt. 


ri««i«j  II  n.v.;!  c..r.«» 


e 


•Si^r'-r'  w^il.'^^^-.^i 


i 


pastora! 
Sketchts 


Mosth  of 
VilLgc  Fol\ 


The  Village  Artist 


P 


Bs  ADELINE  M.  TESKEY 
i2mo,  cloth,  illustrated,  %\.oo 
ICTURES  of  her  neighbors 
„       by  an  artist  whose  canvas  is 
her  village,  whose  brush  is  her  pen, 
and  whose  colors 
are    drawn    from 
a  soul  that  sees 
only   Parity   and 
whose      perspec- 
tive is  her  ideals. 


,Th3  Village 
Artist 

ADEUNE  MTESUE'lf 


u 


-WaMngton  Star. 


I'T'if     artist    conccivt 
rikenes=es  of  people  as  tliey 
might  become  if  they  gave 
their  best  qualities  a  chance 
Mrs.  Simon  SlaJe  tells  her 
experiences     in    a    quamt, 
simple  manner,   that  is  it- 
self a  rare  delight.     ...  ^, 
Altogether  a  delightful  production.    ■ 

AuntAbhfs  Neighbors 

B,  ANNIE  TRl'MBULL  SLOSSON 

•'         Author  of  "  Kishin'  ]immy 

iztT^o,  cloth,  decorated,  5th  edition,  $1.00 

,",-— -;;rratxS.^i:n 

Si'lreasur;,  a'  book\o  laugh  over  ^^^^^ 
;i;^ive.a4,at.ahave.^t^..;h..P>^^^^ 


m.L:^.^i^.:!!m 


Pictures 


of  the  I  'rJer-Sule  of 
Kciu  T'^rk  Lift 


The  IFlsdom  of  the  Su^  ^^* 

7Jv  OWEN   KII-DARK 

121110,  clodi,  ,^1-50 

WHi:V  Ow,-n  Ki;d..r,--i  "  Mv  M.-.mU-  R"^^  " 
cametothei-uMicit^asgiver,  ,.,UPt  am 
comi.l.te  recognition,  not  only  a,  a   K,okh.t 

as  of  giving  !m,n>is.  of  nu.reand  .tur.h.rand  ncherwork 


■3iMPLE 


I 


OWEN 
KILDARE 


author  writes  about  the 
Uuni-li^e  ot'  N-w  York 
it     as      a     f.\-liion.iblf 
-b.immer"    but  as  one 
has  tVit   the   rulsf 


n 


w 


ana  thf  heart-throbs  ot 
the  people  of  the  Ea^t 
Side,  indeed  >  ired  ^s  he 
%v,i-  in  the  rougli  nursery 
of  the  tenement  alley,  it 
ii.  not  rrniarkable  that, 
onie  liis  latent  genius  has 
found  cxpre^5ion,  he 
should  write  to  his 
theme  with  inimitable 
pouer. 


Sdi^U  Cecilia  of  the  Court 

Hy  ISABELLA  R.  HESS 
Illustrated,  121110,  cloth,  $1.2, 

littie  rcJ-haired  saint,      so  bsv*  7 ht   I'-""  "' 

Z  U  is  not  .1,  the  story  nor  a  ''-•;-!;  ..''',     VV  I  .arawa 

(tue  study  of  a  phase  ot  sljm  lite  ro.al.J 

iketch  b)'  a  competent  attist. 


jS'''^^M^'MBJ:Mf^'^. 


8vo,  Ckth 


Price,  $,/.^j  nee 


Denizens  of  the  Deep 

By  FRANK  T.   BULLEV 

THERE  is  a  new  world  of  life  and 
intelligence  opened  to  our  knowl- 
edge in  Mr.  Bullen's  stories  of 
the  inhabitants  of  the  sea.  He 
rinds  the  same  fascinating  interest  in  th*. 
lives  of  the  dwellers  in  the  deep  as 
I'hompson  Seton  found  in  the  lives  of 
the  hunted  ashore,  and  with  the  keenness 
and  vigorwhich  characterized  his  famous 
book  "The  Cruise  of  The  Cachalot"  he 
has  made  a  book  which,  being  based  upon 
personal  observation,  buaressed  by 
scientific  facts  and  decorated  by  im- 
agination, is  a  stcjrehouse  of  infor- 
mation—  an  ideal  romance  of  deep  sea 
folk  and,  as  The 
Saturday  T'tmcs- 
Rtvinv  has  said, 
worth  a  dozen 
novels. 

Not  the  least 
attractive  feature 
of  an  unusually 
attractive  volume 
is  the  series  of 
illustrations  by 
Livingston  Bull 
and  others. 


DENIZENS  OF 
THE  DEEP 


T 
BULLEN. 


r^H    E       IV    O     R    K    S       O    /• 

NORMAN    DUNCAN 


The  Adventures  of  Billy  Topsail 

i2i!io,  illustrattd,  51.50. 

It's  a  hoy's  huok,  hut  its  "a  hook  to  he  chuui- 
iiij-  with" — tli.it  iiickides  everytjuily. 
A  rip])iiij,'  story  of  ailventure  hy  sea— a  north- 
ern sea,  full  of  iff  and  swi'])l  hv  hit;  j,'aks— 
a  tale  that  moves  like  a  full-riui^'ed  ship  with 
all  sail  spread  to  a  rousinj;  hreeie. 

Si;  and  lidiiion 

The  Mother 

A  Novelette  of  New  York  Life.  lanio,  cloth, 
I1.25;  de  I.uxe,  5j.(«i  net. 

"Another  hook  rjuite  unlike  '  Dr.  Luke  '  in 
environment,  hut  very  like  it  in  its  intuitive 
understandings  of  the  natures  of  the  lowlv  .iiid 
ohscnre  .   .   .   holds  the  reader  sDellbound." 

—Sas'  '■Imerit.cii. 

Twenty-fifth  Thottsu 

Doctor  Luke  of  the  i.abrador 

i2mo,  cloth,  #1.50 

"Norman  Duncan  has  fulfuled  all  that  was  ex- 
pected of  him  in  this  story;  it  estalilished  him 
beyonil  cpiestion  as  one  of  the  strong  tnasters 
of  the  j)resent  day." — Ihooklyn  liagte. 

Fourth  I'.dition 

Dr.  Grenfell's  Parish 

Illustrated.     Cloth,  <i.ik)  net. 

"He  tells  vividly  and  pietures(|uelvmany  of  the 
things  done  by  Dr.  Crenfcll  and  lii.s  a.ssoeiates 

-  A'.    }'.  Sun 


THT.COMPLZTZ      WORKS      O  T 

Kalph    Connor 


The  Prospector 


13'  n  Ihousand 


A  Talo  (if  tlie  Cinw's  N\.st  Country. 

I2mO,  Si. 50 

"A  novf  I  so  iTiicn'-.f*  t'uit  i.n<'  uriniU  lii-j  t<*'M)i  Irst  tlu;  »;inrw.  sl"Milit 
sii.ip  CM-  tiir  strain  is  rt-l^-.tstMi  " — Chiiat^o  Tt  H'Un 

Given  '-'''  ''■''"'•"•'^ 

The  Canyon  .'^toiy  from  " /'//,•  Sky  Pti't"'  in  ./;•/  C,if! 
B,u<k  Series,  lii;aiititnl!y  printt'il  in  two  colors  with  ni.iny 
illustrations  ami  niar;;in.il  elchini^s. 

I2nio,  art  cover.  7.S''.  '"' 

3lack  'Rock  .,soih  ihousaud 

A  Talc  nf  tlie  Selkiiks,  willi  an  TntrofhictioM  I'V  Trof. 
Ciecri^e  Ailaiu  Smith.      Illustrated  by  I.onis  Khrad. 

121110  Cloth,  $1.25 

"RalpJi  Connor  Iins  cnnc  into  the  lie.irt  ''f  the  N"rthwe«^t  C:\na(li:in 
miiiim:tins  :)miI  das  ii^nntfd  for  iiv  ;i  ]>irT'ir»'  ■  '  'itr  in  t!if^  lurTii'»T  an^l 
niiinnv:-'  ^lnl[l^  cf  siiifa^^iriL;  nif-ril  "— .SV.  /.        s   iU.'h'   J\-m.>'  r,i/. 


The  Sky  Pilot 


sOolh  thtUisiuui 


\  Tale  of  the  I"ootliills.      Illiistraled  hy  Louis  Uhead. 

l2nio.  cloth,  Si. 25 

"  R:ilpll  Connor's  Milne  i;  Rork'  w;i<  poml,  Init  'The  Sky  Pilot'  ii 
Ix'ttcr.  Tiie  ni;itt<T  whirh  lit!  ^ivt'S  Us  is  ir'.il  life:  virilf,  true,  lender, 
Imm^iroiis,  patlifii.  .  sy,ititiial.  \\  hMl.-sotiH-  — The  <^:it'ook. 

The  Tian  Trom  Glengarry    '('othihou^,u,d 

A  Tale  of  the  (Jttawa.  lanio.  cloth,  $1.50 

".\  li-i^itimiiie  siirc-cssor  to  'Thn  Sky  Pilot'  anit  'Ulack  Rock,'  wliiih 
8e<:ur'il  hnn  tin-  s.vift  f.imtt  that  leaps  to  the  aiillior  wlio  strikis  a  ntw 
and  .;tf''i  tiv  not'-  " —  The  Ltter.iry  Pii^rsf. 


rfit/l  IlloilStllIti 


Glengarry  School  Days 

A  Story  of  early  clays  it\  Cilengarrv. 

I  2nio.   Illustrated,  clolh  Si.  25 

"More  than  that  he   has  piven   us   pirtures    nf  tiiat   little-known 
p^lniry  whicli  brin'.;  with  them  ciear,  cold  lireaths,  the  shailnws  of  the 
yjods,  the  grandeur  of  the  till  tree  trunks,  the  strength  and  the    free- 
Jm  of  tliis  outdoor  life."_C/'/V-m,',>  J.'urn.tl. 

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